Killing Strangers
by cswang
Summary: Susan Rizzi and Elijah Wu are just two among many killers out to collect the bounty on John Wick's head. But as Wick upends the criminal underworld's order and new factions scrabble for power in his aftermath, the assassins wind up in a shadow war on opposite sides. And they're about to meet their matches in each other... Rated M: violence, language, adult themes; AU with sequel.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Introduction**

Hello and welcome! This is a standalone story in the Wickverse, following several semi-original characters (I'll explain some more in a moment). If you're just joining us from the Wickverse, please enjoy!

If you're joining us from the _Mass Effect_ universe and wondering what the hell our erstwhile N7 Fury is doing in the fantastical criminal underworld of _John Wick_ , let me explain. No wait, that will take too long. Let me summarize. It's not a crossover. If you've read my ME story _Special Ops_ , you may recognize some of the names. They're not the same characters, they're the same _archetypes_. Think of them as... alternate universe variants: some details (especially setting-specific ones) may be different, but they should _feel_ recognizably similar.

Right then, thanks for putting up with some meta-exposition.

* * *

 **Killing Strangers**

* * *

 _ **Now…**_

The burst of gunfire ripped into the warehouse wall beside her head. Lining her pistol sights up, she squeezed the trigger twice and put two rounds into her assailant's chest. A scream of pain came from her right and she put a last round through his head, dropping him to the floor. She spun to see Fabbro's man twitching, a sword impaling him clear through the back. _What the hell?_

Somebody behind ripped the sword from his chest and shoved him towards her with a kick so she couldn't get a clear shot. She pushed the dead man aside – and ducked as the blade whistled for her head. She caught a glimpse of his features as he kept moving – so fast – and brought her pistol around. The swing had been a feint though, and his other hand lashed out to parry her wrist, keeping her from shooting him. She grabbed his sword arm in return, clenching it at the wrist as he twisted the blade around, its tip just scraping her leather jacket and failing to penetrate. She fought to bring her pistol around, squeezing the trigger repeatedly. Rounds bracketed him as they circled in a macabre dance, shattering the window behind him.

Her attacker swept one foot behind her ankle, using his advantageous reach and mass to force her to the ground. She curled her legs around his and twisted, levering him off his feet as well. The blade lanced out and she just barely swung her head aside. The tip punched into her hood, sweeping it off her head. His other hand still kept her pistol at bay, so she released his sword arm and lunged into a murderous embrace, bringing herself inside his arms to foil the blade. She reached down, ripped her knife from her waist. The blade sprang out with the push of a button and sent it towards her opponent's head. He pulled back and the edge of the blade just barely made contact with his skin. He dropped the sword, grabbed her neck, and bashed her head into the floor. Stunned momentarily, she couldn't resist as he surged to his feet dragging her along by the neck still.

Then he threw her out the shattered window.

She caught one clear glimpse of his face as she left the warehouse. _Huh._ She recognized him. The ground rushed up with relentless speed and hit her.

* * *

 _ **Then…**_

"Let's go home."

Walking slowly from the wounds he'd endured over the past days, John Wick led his new dog from the pound and into the city night of New York, moving towards the brightly lit bridge in the distance. He left behind a trail of corpses: of outmatched gangsters, of an old friend loyal to the end, of murdered sons and fathers, and a toppled shadow empire.

Wick, in his indomitable will, cared not for what he'd unleashed.

The contract Viggo Tarasov placed upon his head had been pulled. He'd avenged himself and Marcus; Continental would take care of its own. For now, the legendary assassin sought only a modicum of peace. Factions were already maneuvering to rush in and fill the power vacuum Wick left behind as he disappeared into the night like the boogeyman they called him. John Wick left another legacy: the weapons the shadow war would be fought with. Tarasov's open contract had been a beacon of lethal opportunity, kicking off a scramble towards New York City of underworld legends, killers, and predators.

* * *

 _ **Earlier…**_

 _I hate New York traffic._ Susan Rizzi steered the rental car through the streets in the early afternoon. The heavy gray clouds creeping in overhead promised rain, while the damp sidewalks and occasional puddle testified to earlier precipitation. Navigating through the grid, she turned down one narrow street and pulled over into a reserved spot before she'd reached the sharp curve of the turn ahead. She got out, adjusted her long coat, and popped the trunk to get her luggage. Out came two large cases and she rolled them up the street towards the hotel entrance.

The Continental stood at the tip of the sharp corner, a towering triangular wedge of carved gray stone and dark windows like murder holes. Susan looked up at the lamps hanging from the column row that comprised the building side, shining warmly like a series of lighthouses illuminating a dark coast. The front entrance stood at the corner base; a black cloth overhang with a stylized C shielded a fanned staircase leading up to the double doors. She climbed the stairs with a case in each hand, politely shaking her head as the bellhops offered to take her luggage. Nobody carried her guns but her. She nodded her thanks as one opened the heavy doors for her.

Right inside the doors stood a pair of wrought iron gates that cranked apart at her approach, welcoming her into the hotel lobby. Gleaming marble pillars lined the warm chamber, stretching up to the arched, vaulted ceiling with its retro chandeliers. Frescoes and decorative designs covered much of the surfaces in sight. Fine leather-backed seats and couches stood interspersed along one side of the chamber, occupied by men and women in a mix of formal clothes. Soothing, quiet music filled the air, masking their conversations. At the far end stood the front desk.

Susan arched an eyebrow at the crowd in the lobby; she'd rarely seen such a line at the Continental. It stretched from the front desk to halfway across the lobby. Nearly everybody had some form of long or bulky luggage – hardly surprising considering the Continental's typical guests. Most of them reflexively looked back towards the doorway as she entered through the gates. Again, unsurprising given their occupations. She took the opportunity to see if she recognized any of the faces present. Tom Diomedes and Melody Dumont stood in the mix; they nodded back towards her. Taking her place at the rear of the line, Susan waited while the shaven-headed, dark-skinned man in suit and glasses manning the front desk checked guests in and made polite small talk. The iron gates behind her slid open; she half-turned and looked over her shoulder at the new arrival.

The man slipped inside the doorway, taking a half-step to the side as he did so in the unconscious manner of one clearing a chokepoint. Asian, she noted. Chinese features, but not entirely; he had hints of Middle Eastern ancestry in his face. Handsome, in a reserved sense. A suit but no tie, with a long tubular case slung over one shoulder and standard bulky luggage in the other hand. His gaze flickered over the lobby and its occupants. She didn't recognize him; not an East Coast regular then, but somebody who could get a reservation at the Continental. He met her glance and nodded politely. Susan acknowledged the other professional with a fractional tilt of her chin, then turned back to wait in line.

The concierge had lost none of his efficiency and the line moved briskly. Susan stepped up to the smooth marble counter between two cylinder shaded lamps. He looked down at his desk. "I have you listed for five nights?" he said, his accent drawing the vowels out.

She nodded. "That's the plan. It depends on business, of course."

"Of course. Will you require access to stored items this visit?"

"Possibly, but not right away." Susan reached into her coat pocket, withdrew an embossed gold coin, and slid it gently across the counter.

He reached out without looking and swept it out of sight. His hand came back up across the counter and slid a matte black key card towards her. "Room Seven-Twelve. Welcome back to the Continental, Miss Rizzi. Do enjoy your stay."

"Thank you. It's a pleasure to be back." Susan nodded and took the keycard. She turned away and headed towards the elevator.

* * *

The iron gates slid open, admitting Elijah Wu into the Continental lobby. He glanced around, taking in the décor and the occupants. Some he knew by reputation – like Migg and Kerranus. Most were mysteries; New York wasn't his home turf. Not that this crowd would be exclusively New York professionals, given this new contract's value.

The last woman in the line looked over her shoulder at him; Elijah sensed the appraisal in her gaze and returned the curiosity. Tall, pale skin, brown hair swept aside in a bob cut. He appreciated her delicate facial features and the keen presence in her eyes. Her pale cream coat ran down to mid-calf, catching the eye with a floral pattern along the sides and waist that faded from pale blue hues to soft pinks. She carried two reinforced luggage cases; so did most people waiting to check in. Elijah nodded to her; she barely returned it. He saw the change in her eyes as she turned back to the front desk, dismissing him as an immediate threat.

Elijah stood in silence as the line progressed forward. The woman before him got her keycard and walked towards the elevators, eyes flickering over him as she passed. Up close he saw that the flowers on her coat weren't a print, but actual blossoms incorporated into her garment. He watched her from the corner of his eye, then turned towards the counter.

The concierge gave him a polite nod. "Good day, sir. Have you a reservation?"

"Yes. Under 'Wu.'"

Another nod. "Our records show it's been two years since your last visit. I have you for eight nights?"

"For now." Elijah slid across a gold coin across the counter.

The concierge replied with a keycard. "Room Seven-Thirteen. Enjoy your stay."

"Thanks." He tucked the card into one pocket. "It's… Charon, right?" The nod he received was so slight it could just have been the concierge glancing at his ledger. Elijah returned it nonetheless and turned to the elevators. The woman in the flower coat stood waiting before a black lattice gate that looked like it came from the turn of the last century. Despite its seeming age the lift system ran quietly and smoothly; like many things about the Continental, surface appearance and underlying truth could be different things.

The elevator car slid down to the lobby. The woman hauled the gate open, stepped in, and turned to face forward. She moved to one side, giving him room. Elijah stepped in with a polite nod; their luggage made it slightly cramped but not uncomfortably so. "Floor?" she asked. Her voice was low and smooth like fine brandy.

"Seven." He pulled the gate shut and she hit a brass button. Just the one, he noticed. They both stood facing the front of the car as it ascended, quiet classical music piping from disguised speakers. The elevator halted and he opened the gate, a little alcove with dark purple carpeting and elegant two-tone walls. Elijah stepped out and heard the woman follow, instinctively alert despite Continental's rules. He kept moving, turning into a corridor lined with black glossy black doors and lamp basins. Carrying his luggage, he strode down towards his room, relaxing slightly as the woman hung back just enough to stay out of reach – a professional courtesy he appreciated, and one that the ill-mannered upstarts among the China coast societies could stand to learn.

Elijah moved to Room 713, inserted the keycard and cracked the door open. He turned back, smiled politely to the other professional. She nodded back, moved to the door opposite his, and pushed her luggage in. She shut the door behind her, and he did the same.

* * *

The hotel room had that New York mix of retro architecture and contemporary furnishing, all done with an understated elegance that spoke of abiding familiarity with old wealth. Susan set her luggage down in the closet, opened the first case, and began hanging up clothes. She slipped the coat off and sat down on the bed, sighing at the positive luxury after her last job. Speaking of… her phone had several new messages, one of which pertained to the open contract she was after. She opened it and frowned; the thing was simple, direct, and sure to cause trouble.

 _John Wick contract cancelled effective immediately per VT order. No payments enumerated. Cease all completion attempts._

"Damn," she said. _So much for this trip._ It looked like her original reservation at the Continental had been wildly off the mark. That came with a sudden relief, if she was honest with herself. Every professional in the underworld worth their price knew who Wick was – and the almost ludicrous exploits assigned to his name. He'd dropped off the radar around half a decade ago, when she was just starting out. Vanished like a ghost. Some said he got out, got married. Others claimed that he'd finally been killed. Susan had always doubted those stories. If somebody had taken Wick down they'd have made it known the length and width of the shadow world. And now out of nowhere came a multi-million open contract on him – by the man who'd been his principle employer. Or at least, there had been. Now there were going to be a lot of disappointed professionals. At least the Continental was unchanged, and New York had no shortage of distractions. Worst case, she could enjoy a vacation. After Brazil she could certainly use one.

She spent the first night looking out the window, listening to the fierce rains come in waves to beat against the glass like muted gunshots. The never-ending sounds of the city at night drifted through the air – sirens, horns, and the growl of engines. It felt heavy, momentous – like some drama was playing itself out elsewhere with the contract's cancellation. Eventually, tired as she was by the travel, Susan went to bed and shut out the world, relieved that she didn't have to figure out how to kill John Wick.

The vibrating buzz of her phone's alarm jolted her awake. Mumbling and cursing, Susan rolled over and fumbled for the infernal device. Killing the alarm, she climbed out of bed and stretched. A day of leisure, she decided. Coffee and something sweet in the late morning, perhaps. While the Continental had exceptional food services, some things she liked… outside the Continental's realm. She left the hotel soon after, dressed for the weather, and headed for the little Parisian patisserie she knew.

She really should get something better to eat for brunch, she knew, but one sniff of the green tea crepe cake broke that resolve. She'd only gotten one bite in when her phone buzzed. Susan contemplated ignoring it for a moment. Finish the cake and the coffee. The moment passed quickly. She opened the message.

 _Rizzi, heard you're in town with no contract. Work to be done. I want to arrange a meet to discuss opportunities. Bianco 2 PM today. The Blacksmith_

Susan sighed. "Fabbro. That was fast." She checked the time and sighed again, looking mournfully at the cake. She wouldn't have time to properly enjoy it if she wanted to make the meeting on time.

* * *

Elijah opened the door to the penthouse, walking through the first partitioned chamber to a room with a round table. Scrolls of Chinese calligraphy hung from the red and gold walls – characters for strength and loyalty. Glazed porcelain stood on stands interspersed around the room. A man in a fine suit sat at the table; it took Elijah a second to recognize him. 'Eighth' Tiger Shun, the American east coast head of the Silver Mountain society. He was younger than a man of his position typically would be, barely a sprinkling of gray hairs visible at the temples of his immaculately coiffed hair. His face was round and smooth, but couldn't hide the sharp cruelty in his eyes. Something important must have happened for this meeting to be taking place.

Flanked by two guards, Elijah stopped the proper ten paces away and brought his hands up before him, clasping one fist into his palm. Shun smiled emptily at Elijah. "Mister Wu," he said in Chinese. "A pleasure to meet you at last. You come highly spoken of by our west coast associates. How's your Mandarin?"

"Passable," Elijah said. "It isn't my primary language, I'm afraid."

"English then," Shun said, switching languages. He waved Elijah to the seat opposite him at the table. A fine tea set sat before him on the table, and Shun poured a measure but left the cup on the table. "I understand you came for an open contract?"

"Not anymore. It was pulled."

"Do you know why?"

Elijah shook his head. "Didn't say."

"The buyer is gone."

Elijah's eyes widened. "Gone – as in… Viggo Tarasov's dead?"

Shun nodded. "His body was found by his helipad last night. He was trying to run from something."

"John Wick. It must be. I guess that leaves his son in charge then."

"No. Iosev is dead as well. It seems Wick's anger was originally directed at the stupid boy."

"Christ. He just decapitated the strongest house on the east coast."

"Indeed." Shun tapped the table with his fingertips. "This is an opportunity like none other. When the archer's bowstring is broken, the crouching tiger springs forth from the grass," he said in Chinese.

Elijah raised one eyebrow fractionally. Shun was talking about a shadow war: a messy, bloody affair no matter how flowery the language. He'd seen it in China and California more than once. "Why am I here?"

"Your… services to the west coast brotherhoods are well known. I wish to put your skill to use."

"Who's the target?"

"No, no. Not like that. At least, not immediately. This is greater than one bullet in the right man. This requires a proper _youxia_ , a skilled retainer at arms. A blade in the sheath capable of both striking and warding."

"You want me to just stick around on call?"

"A crude way of stating it, but accurate enough."

"I'm sure you have-" Elijah barely stopped himself from saying 'thugs.' "-personnel."

"Of your skill? Not many." Shun leaned back. "I understand you are an associate of the Silver Mountain and not a sworn member, but many among our ranks look to you as a brother anyways – a surrogate, perhaps. There are other factions waiting in the shadows, we will undoubtedly have to fend off challengers."

"So you want me to stay in New York just in case."

"Just in case. Thirty thousand a day with the standard bonus for unpleasant incidents. We would contact you in the event of any business, so you would be free to pursue any other interests that do not oppose the Silver Mountain." Tiger Shun glanced at his watch, then tapped the teacup with two fingers, signaling that the conversation was at an end. "Do excuse the rudeness, but my time is short. I require an immediate answer."

Elijah hesitated for only a moment. "I'll take it."

"Excellent. Xiao Ma is waiting outside. She has the details of today's work."

Getting up, Elijah clasped his hands together again and bowed slightly. Tiger Shun had already turned his attention elsewhere. Without saying anything else, he turned around and left to get his work details.

* * *

Bianco was one of the premier Italian restaurants in the city, known for its authentic cuisine, extensive wine list, and impeccable service. Among those immersed in the underworld it was also known as the preferred front for Marco Fabbro, representative of certain… old world interests on the American east coast. Susan pulled the heavy wooden door open and stepped into the comfortably dim interior. The head waiter was a thin man she didn't recognize. He looked up as she entered. "Good afternoon. How may I assist you?"

Susan nodded towards the rear. "I have an appointment with the Blacksmith."

The man didn't miss a beat. "Of course, ma'am. Right this way." He spun on his heel and led her through the restaurant on a winding path that both showed off the opulent furnishings and gave anybody in the rear plenty of time to flee or prepare a response. _Typical Fabbro._ The "waiter" halted before a polished black door, unlocked it, and held it open for her.

A pair of men waited on the other side in a small antechamber leading to a staircase. The fine cut of their Italian suits did nothing to disguise the air of ready violence that hung about them. She only recognized one of them, a lecherous made man who went by 'Jonesy' Tony. The other one looked her over, held out a fabric lined tray. "No weapons," he said.

Susan reached into her coat and pulled out her pistol slowly, holding it by the slide. She laid the Czech-made P-07 onto the tray, then brought out her automatic knife – a slim, oblong black rectangle. She set it next to her pistol and looked at the two guards.

"Arms out," Tony said. Sighing, Susan held her arms up to her sides as Tony stepped around behind her. He ran his hands up her legs and over her body, out across both arms, then back across the front of her chest. She bit back her annoyance as his hands lingered on certain parts longer than strictly necessary. "She's clear," he said, stepping back around. Tony returned the glare she shot him with a grin as he passed a hand over himself. "Come on, doll. You know you'd love to get your legs wrapped around this."

Susan rolled her eyes. "Are we done?"

"Go ahead, ma'am." At least the other guy could maintain some decorum of professionalism. She walked past them and climbed the stairs. As she moved out of sight she heard him say quietly to Tony, "I thought she'd have more knives on her, y'know?"

"Susan!" Marco Fabbro sat in the VIP lounge, a roomy but intimate space of contrasts: sleek modern furniture of smooth leather and gleaming hardwood surrounded by practically Roman stonework and Renaissance paintings and sculptures. Fabbro was solidly built, a big man accustomed to fine things. The cut of his suit showed the bulk wasn't softness; his pecs outlined the slender, needle-like pin lacing his shirt pocket and his broad face could have been chiseled from granite. He rose from his table and offered his hand; she shook it once, then he raised the back of her hand to his lips and planted a kiss on it. "Lovely as always, huh?"

"Fabbro." She nodded to him and to Edmondo, the spectacled, middle-aged man who served as Fabbro's advisor sitting at the same table. He returned the nod and went back to his computer.

"Sit, sit. You want anything?"

"I'm good, thanks." Susan sat opposite him and folded her hands on the table. "What's this about?"

"Straight to business." Fabbro nudged Edmondo. "Gotta respect that, huh?"

"Quite." Edmondo adjusted his glasses, his voice a baritone seemingly at odds with his nondescript appearance. "It's been some time since we've procured your services, Miss Rizzi."

"I've kept busy. What's going on?"

"Got a job for you," Fabbro said.

"I figured. Who?"

"Not like that. You hear about Tarasov?"

"Pulling the Wick contract?"

"Gettin' whacked."

Susan blinked. "Viggo Tarasov's dead? Guess he didn't pull that contract in time."

"You know what this means, right? Things are gonna be a mess until things shake out. You know the leverage he had on this city was unreal, huh? He had everybody who was anybody eatin' outta the palm of his hand, from the governor on down. Now he's gone."

"The balance of power has shifted," Edmondo said. "There will be… factions scrambling to take Tarasov's place. It's probably no surprise that we're one of many."

"Dog eat dog," Fabbro added. "Last one standing takes it all."

"And you want me to do what?" Susan said. "Take out the heads of all your competitors? I hate to break it to you, Fabbro, but I'm no John Wick."

"What? No! Cool it, Rizzi. Sweet Mary, no need to reenact the Boogeyman's last dance." Fabbro bobbed his head. "At least, not yet. We'll keep things civilized for now, huh?"

"Then what's the job?"

"Think of it as… independent contracting, representin' our interests. Exclusive contract: you work for us when we need your services."

"Thereby taking me out of the market for competitor contracts?"

"Bingo. Look, Wick's contract brought in troubleshooters from all over. This city's a powder keg waiting for a match, and you all-" He waved a hand at her, "are like sparks dancing around. People are moving already to snatch the pros up."

"People?"

"Tarasov's remnants, the cartels, those Silver Mountain chinks, you name it."

"You worried about a contract out on you? I'm not a bodyguard, Fabbro."

"I know, I know. But you are a troubleshooter, huh? And trust me, 'fore long there's gonna be trouble needs shootin'."

"For how long?"

"Can't say for sure. How long did it take old Viggo to secure his grip on the city, huh? Don't worry," he said at Susan's expression. "I get you're an independent woman. But you help us out, we help you out, huh? I'll pay you twenty percent above standard rates for each… situation you help resolve."

"That much?"

"It's a buyer's market out there, Rizzi. And we're on the clock here, tick-tock. What's it gonna be, sweetheart?"

Susan smiled. "It's not like I have anything better to do right now."

"Good." Edmondo looked up from his laptop. "Marco wasn't exaggerating about timely necessities. If you accept, we're tasking a crew for this afternoon. Tarasov's primary stash was destroyed yesterday, but we know he had at least another safe house in Brooklyn. There should be leverage there. If we can recover it, it'll put us in an advantageous position."

"Sounds simple enough," Susan said. "Why do you need me?"

"The safe house _was_ secret. Its existence and location were… disclosed yesterday in a rather spectacular fashion."

Fabbro snorted. "John Wick fucked the place up like you wouldn't believe."

"What makes you think there's anything left to recover then?"

"He evidently wasn't interested in its contents," Edmondo said, "just its occupants. He killed everybody present and left."

"Sounds like Wick."

"Indeed. But now its public knowledge, and we undoubtedly won't be the only ones attempting to recover Tarasov's intelligence. Hence, your presence."

"In case your men encounter other interested parties."

"Bingo. You're a troubleshooter." Fabbro leaned forward. "I'm expectin' trouble, and you're going to shoot it."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The city rolled by outside the SUV, buildings and people passing in a blur as Fabbro's convoy powered through for the defunct safe house. Susan Rizzi stared out the closed window, watching the gray sky drift overhead. That also gave her the chance to shut out the inane jabber from the rest of the car's passengers. She hoped there wasn't anything waiting for them at Tarasov's building; if the quality of conversation corresponded with their value in a fight, she'd rather eat her pistol than go into battle alongside this batch of loudmouthed idiots. Hell, if she had to listen to one more recap of whatever reality television Durante was watching she wasn't sure she'd be able to hold back the urge to draw her weapon and just shoot everybody in the car.

The city drifting by looked dreamily peaceful, but felt within her bones that was an illusion. Viggo's hold on Manhattan, for all the casual brutality he'd been capable of, had been a sort of paradoxical peacekeeper. None of the other organizations had been able to oppose him alone, and Viggo had played all of them against each other, keeping old enmities and grudges at the forefront. She'd picked up some gossip upon returning to the Continental, and all of it pointed to one conclusion: things were going to get messy.

"Hey Rizzi." The remark drew her attention. It came from Thrace, a man with nondescript features and a medium build – and one of the more tolerable ones in Fabbro's crew so far. She looked over to see him half-turned in the passenger seat. "You know what the hell's goin' on? Rumor is Viggo Tarasov got taken out."

Susan nodded. "That part's true, as far as I know."

"Shit. Who coulda done that?"

" _Baba Yaga._ "

Thrace's eyes widened. "I thought he got out."

She chuckled. "Does anybody ever really get out?"

"Good point. So we shouldn't have to worry about payback for clearing this place out?"

"It should be empty."

From the rear seat next to her, Durante looked over with a half-sneer. "Why are you tagging along anyways? You're not part of the crew."

Thrace sighed. "Hey, dumbass. She's a pro. Pay a little more attention to real life."

"What do you mean pro?"

"That thing in Naples?"

"What thing in Naples?"

Susan didn't say anything, just looked out the window again.

"Oh for- You know, that hit against Piccoli's men? That was her!"

"Oh." Susan looked back at Durante and suppressed a grin as he shuffled a few inches away from her.

At least that finally shut him up.

* * *

The two SUVs came to a halt half a block away from the safe house. They were close to the old docks and rows of warehouses and shipping containers filled the space as far as the eye could see. The New York skyline sat in the distance. Getting out with the others, Rizzi glanced around at the nearby buildings, getting her bearings and heading off towards their destination. She raised the hood of her leather overcoat, settling it in place around her head. An affectation, but one that helped hide her face from casual observation. A still, lifeless quiet hung in the air like a funereal silence. Thrace, Durante, and five others followed while the drivers remained with the vehicles.

Rizzi moved quickly and quietly, slipping past several disheveled looking buildings. She winced internally at how some of Fabbro's men tramped along; there was confidence, and there was disrespect. Rounding a street corner, she came upon the property in question. The yellow strands of crime scene tape left no doubt of that. A veritable wall of shipping containers blocked sight of the building itself, hiding it behind battered ridged steel. Ducking beneath the police line, she stole past and moved along the perimeter to locate a gap wide enough for cars to get through. The sight of the warehouse brought her to a halt. Fabbro's men joined her with a chorus of muttered curses.

"Okay," Rizzi said. "Keep an eye out."

Viggo's safe house had already been given an initial cleaning, but that hadn't been anywhere near enough to erase whatever carnage had occurred. Most obvious were the burnt husks of a trio of cars sitting outside the side doors of the warehouse. A closer look revealed bullet holes scattered around. "What happened here?" one of Fabbro's men wondered.

"John Wick," she said, turning to three men standing behind. "Check the ground floor. You know what we're looking for." She turned to Thrace. "Let's take the second floor."

He nodded, shrugging as they walked. "You really expect to find anything left here?"

"Expect? Not really. It's our job; if there's really nothing here, so be it."

"Why would Wick have left anything?" Thrace said as they headed for the stairs just inside the cavernous open floor. "Guy wasn't an idiot. Anything here would've been worth tons."

"Word was Wick came here for one specific target." The metal stairs rattled under her tread.

"So?"

"That was his style. He didn't let anything distract him from an objective. If he was here to kill one man, that's what he would have done. Anything else? Not a consideration."

The second story of the safe house looked more like some teenager's den. Stacked pizza boxes and soft drinks sat on a table with several couches arrayed around a TV. One wall with tall, wide windows looked out into the open space below. A door by the far side, probably leading into the office with the exterior staircase she'd seen from outside. Rizzi glanced around the room; some other tables sat around the edges. One had an old desktop, worth grabbing. Some bookshelves, one had file binders, another held a collection of children's literature. Okay, that was odd. Also worth checking out. Going through each book would be a pain; better to collect them all and let Fabbro's men sort through it.

She moved over to the computer tower and grunted in satisfaction as she saw the thumb drive sticking out of a front USB port. Something like that was remarkably sloppy, and lent further evidence that Wick had hit the place like a hurricane.

"Hey, got a safe here," Thrace said, pointing to one corner. "Jackpot."

"Only if we can get in." Rizzi pocketed the thumb drive, then walked over and looked the squat metal box over for any obvious booby traps. "Otherwise we're gonna have to move it out of here."

"Jimmy can take a look at it," said Thrace, crossing his arms. "He's got some experience with-"

Bursts of gunfire and startled shouts interrupted him. Rizzi dropped into a crouch, hauling her pistol out. That wasn't far at all; whoever was shooting, they were close. Far too close. "Bring the cars around!" she shouted.

Two of Fabbro's men rushed up the stairs; she barely stopped herself from shooting them. "They're coming from the shipping crates!" Durante said, wide-eyed and breathing hard. "Jimmy's gettin' the cars!"

Rizzi grimaced. "We need to hold defensible positions downstairs then, keep them from getting any closer. Don't pull back here!"

"Hey," said Durante. "You're not in charge here."

"Oh for-" She broke off in a groan of disgust. "You really want to get into this now?" Another burst of gunfire sounded from outside.

Durante glanced out the window. "You're a-" He stopped talking, permanently, as a shot roared out from inside the warehouse and splattered the contents of his skull on the wall behind him.

Rizzi spun and dove aside; several more shots punched through the space she'd been standing. Where the hell was that coming from? The side office doorway – bullet holes riddled its little glass window. She brought her pistol up and put a quartet of rounds through the door, ripping ragged holes through the wood. Return fire came back in, forcing her to move aside, ducking behind a pillar. Two more of Fabbro's men came charging up the stairs and she cursed. Were they _trying_ to get themselves killed?

The storm of gunfire intensified. Fabbro's men began shooting back, pistol rounds echoing in the space like thunderclaps. She heard shouts from downstairs in the lulls. Their attackers had come better prepared, which would be embarrassing – if they got out of this alive. Rizzi started circling around to hit the office doors from an angle. Thrace went for the door as well, scuttling forward. He emptied his pistol as he approached, punching more holes into the riddled surface. Rizzi covered him as he dumped the empty magazine and slammed a fresh one home. He moved towards the door, drew back to kick it open, and-

The door slammed open. A figure charged out, hitting Thrace with a tackle and wrestling the gun upwards; she had no clear shot. The screeching roar of tires came from outside. Another man rushed out of the office door, machine pistol in his fist. She caught a quick glimpse of his features; black hair, flamboyant tattoos covering his bare arms. Rizzi lunged to the side out of his line of fire as he sent a chattering burst her way. The gunman ducked back into the office as one of Fabbro's men blasted away from near the staircase. A long return burst caught both of Fabbro's men near the staircase, spraying blood onto the wall and floor. Then he turned the machine pistol on Rizzi.

The burst of gunfire ripped into the warehouse wall beside her head. Lining her pistol sights up, she squeezed the trigger twice and put two rounds into her assailant's chest. A scream of pain came from her right and she put a last round through his head, dropping him to the floor. She spun to see Thrace twitching, a sword impaling him clear through the back. _What the hell?_

Somebody behind ripped the sword from his chest and shoved him towards her with a kick so she couldn't get a clear shot. She pushed the dead man aside – and ducked as the blade whistled for her head. She caught a glimpse of his features as he kept moving – so fast – and brought her pistol around. The swing had been a feint though, and his other hand lashed out to parry her wrist, keeping her from shooting him. She grabbed his sword arm in return, clenching it at the wrist as he twisted the blade around, its tip just scraping her leather jacket and failing to penetrate. She fought to bring her pistol around, squeezing the trigger repeatedly. Rounds bracketed him as they circled in a macabre dance, shattering the window behind him.

Her attacker swept one foot behind her ankle, using his advantageous reach and mass to force her to the ground. She curled her legs around his and twisted, levering him off his feet as well. The blade lanced out and she just barely swung her head aside. The tip punched into her hood, sweeping it off her head. His other hand still kept her pistol at bay, so she released his sword arm and lunged into a murderous embrace, bringing herself inside his arms to foil the blade. She reached down, ripped her knife from her waist. The blade sprang out with the push of a button and sent it towards her opponent's head. He pulled back and the edge of the blade just barely made contact with his skin. He dropped the sword, grabbed her neck, and bashed her head into the floor. Stunned momentarily, she couldn't resist as he surged to his feet dragging her along by the neck still.

Then he threw her out the shattered window.

She caught one clear glimpse of his face as she left the warehouse. _Huh._ She recognized him. The ground rushed up with relentless speed and hit her.

* * *

Elijah Wu picked his sword up as another burst of gunfire came from below; he heard several shouts as the Silver Mountain men drove the other group away. They fell back to their cars that had driven nearly into the warehouse. The wild sprays of fire that the Silver Mountain sent their way proved drastically inaccurate and the convoy of SUVs roared off. Wu shook his head. They were a far cry from professionals, he reminded himself. Stepping towards the broken window frame he drew his pistol and looked down.

Just broken glass. The woman – the other professional – was gone. Slipped away into the maze of shipping containers, undoubtedly. He swept the area, pistol at the ready, but saw nothing. Wu shrugged to himself; he realized he didn't actually mind that she'd escaped. He'd seen her, back at the Continental. The woman in the flower coat – on the same floor. Interesting.

Turning back, he glanced at the other Silver Mountain man in the office. What was his name? Zhu-something or the other? Not that it mattered now. The gangster was what they called "very dead," what with the contents of his skull given fresh ventilation by a nine-millimeter round.

Another Silver Mountain man rushed up the stairs, eyes wide and twitchy with adrenaline. "They're getting away!" he yelled in Chinese. "We should pursue and-"

"That's not what we're here for," Wu said. He pointed to the abandoned objects that had once belonged to Tarasov. "Gather everything, and be quick about it."

"But they killed Zhu Qiang! The code of vengeance demands retribution!"

"Not at the expense of the job at hand." Wu matched the other man's stare as he sheathed his sword. "Use your brain," he said in Chinese. "The police will be here soon. If we don't get what we can now, this whole thing will have been a waste."

"You'd never understand," the other man said. "Outsider." But he turned away, heading down the stairs and calling for the others to strip the place.

 _Definitely not professionals._ Wu sighed, holstered his pistol, and moved towards Zhu's corpse. At least they'd be able to bury him properly, instead of leaving the body for the cleaners.

* * *

 _Yeah, that was fun._ Staggering slightly, Susan Rizzi jogged down the Brooklyn streets towards the nearest subway station. Getting defenestrated had definitely not been on her to-do list for the day. _At least nothing's broken._ The streets, also, seemed mercifully clear of bystanders. They were probably avoiding the place given Wick's rampage the other day. That made her job easier, though she kept a tight grip on the pistol underneath her coat. There didn't seem to be any pursuit from those who'd attacked at the safe house, but she'd been doing this long enough to know that could change in an instant.

Grimacing as she moved, Susan ran through the implications what happened at the safe house. Fabbro was certainly right; the sudden vacuum left by Tarasov's confrontation with John Wick had upended everything. Nobody would have been so brazen before. And the speed of it – this wasn't a slow burn, this was a chain of C4 wired up, and somebody had just mashed the detonator.

The New York underworld hadn't been at peace; Viggo Tarasov had just kept a lid on the simmering grudges and hatreds. Like a pressure pot – and now it was all going to blow.

Which meant that she would be very busy.

Susan kept alert as she approached the subway station. People milled around, moved through or loitered. Few paid her any attention, not that it meant much. She glanced at her reflection in the ticket machine and wiped a smudge off her cheek. _Thanks for the support, guys._ She understood the need for Fabbro's men to evacuate quickly, but that didn't mean she appreciated getting left behind like that. _Note to self: best to work alone._

Only when she boarded a train for Manhattan and the doors slid shut did she breathe a sigh of relief, nevertheless positioning herself in a corner where she could see the entirety of her car and its occupants. It appeared to be the standard mix of cosmopolitan city-dwellers, almost all of them engrossed in their various mobile devices and paying no mind to anything else around them. Gripping the overhead rail with one hand and her pistol with the other, Rizzi adopted a blank look like that of the others around her as the car jolted into motion.

* * *

Fabbro was not at Bianco, much to her annoyance. Susan left the restaurant, just filling up with the evening crowd. Legitimate restaurant customers, at first glance. Fabbro probably didn't do much of the other kind of business there during the dinner hours. The restaurant manager gave her one of his addresses: a penthouse suite in one of the posh towers that catered to those with more money than most people could dream of. Not that she was toeing the poverty line or anything given how much certain contracts paid, but this was the domain of another magnitude of wealth.

The taxi dropped her off at the base of an art deco tower that stretched up into the sky. The doormen at the brass counter wore suits that were just a tad too loose. One might have been somebody whose regular jacket was at the dry cleaner, but both of them? Yeah, they were packing, and probably more than sub-compacts. She walked right up and placed her hands flat on top of the counter. "I'm here to see Marco Fabbro."

They both tensed at that, sitting straighter and staring at her with not quite hostile gazes. One's hands disappeared behind the counter as the other picked up an ornate phone. "And who shall I say is calling?" he asked.

"Susan Rizzi, regarding today's… errand."

She stood still as the doorman carried on a brief conversation, keeping her hands on the countertop. Then the man nodded, hung up, and hit a button under the counter. A section of the silvery embossed wall opposite the bank of elevators slid open, revealing a little alcove. "Go right ahead," he said. "Mister Fabbro is expecting you."

"I'm sure he is." Susan nodded at both of them and strolled to the alcove, keeping her hands in sight as a courtesy. The niche led to a private elevator large enough that she could have laid down comfortably in it. Plush, deep red velvet carpeting and copper etchings made it feel less like a lift than an entry chamber to some bohemian turn of the century lounge. There were no destinations on the control panel, only up and down. She hit the up button and waited as the elevator climbed with a smooth swiftness that made her stomach dive for her feet.

The private elevator deposited her in a marble foyer with Jonesy Tony and two others waiting for her. He motioned her forwards and Susan stepped towards them, handed over her weapons, and endured another patdown. Tony was even less subtle about copping a feel this time, and she had to stop herself from slugging him in the face. Finally he finished and waved her towards a pair of carved mahogany doors.

Fabbro's penthouse had no shortage of opulence and luxury on display as she hauled one door open and slipped through. It led to what might have been a living room, if typical examples contained old Roman sculptures, a marble fireplace, and crystal chandeliers visible from orbit.

And of course, an irate Mafioso boss.

Marco Fabbro sat at the head of a long, dark table, a brandy snifter before him. Edmondo sat near him, focused on his ever-present laptop. Fabbro stared at her as she approached. "Rizzi." His voice could have frozen the Hudson River. "That was some performance today, huh?"

"We got jumped," Susan said. "You were right; there are others interested in what Tarasov kept there."

"Others who got the upper hand today," Fabbro said, and took a sip from his snifter. "Thought you were dead when you didn't come back, huh?"

Susan smiled dryly. "Your guys were in such a hurry they left me behind. You know how the subways are in this town. Even more when you make sure you're not tailed."

Fabbro grunted dismissively.

"As to what Tarasov had…" She pulled the thumb drive from her pocket and slid it across the table to Fabbro. "It may not be a complete loss."

"Ha! Now that's why I pay you!" The coolness in his voice evaporated in an instant, replaced with the jovial warmth he affected most of the time. Fabbro seized the little device with a hunger typically seen in starving men, holding onto it for a moment before passing it to Edmondo. The advisor hammered away at his keyboard for several moments.

"You may not want to plug that in until you're in a Faraday cage," Susan said. "Who knows what kind of safeguards that thing might have?"

"Tarasov was old-fashioned about these things," Edmondo said in his deep voice. "Digital security mattered to him less than more direct forms of leverage. And besides, we possess the access codes."

"You do?"

"We're on the rise, Rizzi," said Fabbro. "Some of Tarasov's former guys can see which way the wind is blowing."

"That was fast."

Fabbro didn't seem to mind. He took another sip. "These guys you tussled with. Heard it was chinks, huh?"

"That's right."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Fabbro blew a breath through clenched teeth. "Figures. Not surprising, really. Thought something like this might happen, huh?" he said to himself before looking back at Susan. "Okay, doll. Not bad, not bad. You proved your worth today. Take the rest of the night off, huh? We'll call if something comes up."

"As you wish," Susan said, but he was obviously not paying her any attention at that point, leaning over to stare at Edmondo's screen.

She showed herself back out to the foyer, collected her weapons, and slipped into the private elevator. With the adrenaline long worn off, she felt the fight now: the sting in her knuckles, the ache in her hip where she'd landed after getting thrown out of a freaking window. At least the leather of her coat had kept the glass from slicing her into ribbons. Small mercies. Susan refused to let it show as she walked through the lobby; in this life, revealing weakness was about as safe as swimming with sharks while you had an open wound.

The subway back to the closest station to the Continental had the typical Manhattan crowd packed into it. Halfway there she decided she wanted a drink. Maybe more than one, the way the day had gone.

Fortunately, the Continental had something for that.

* * *

Susan headed back to her room first when she reached the hotel. The hooded coat went into its spot in the closet, the gun into the heavy, high-quality safe the Continental provided. One long shower later she felt human again. She caught up on some reading as she waited for the night to grow later: the party wouldn't _really_ get started until after midnight. Finally she got dressed – nothing too fancy, just a classy black evening dress. One of her knives went into a thigh sheathe mounted high up. A purse rounded out the ensemble, holding a stack of gold coins and a P30SK.

The Continental might have its rules, but that still didn't make it smart to wander amongst people like the hotel's clientele unarmed. Susan left the room, walked down the corridor, and hit the button for the basement in the elevator. The lift slid downwards through the stories and the slick decoration of the hotel walls gave way to the bare surfaces of the basements where the hustle of hospitality business took place. White brick walls condensed steam from a dozen laundry machines in one room, pipes and valves ran along the ceiling in snaking, twisting configurations. None of the staff batted an eye at the woman dressed for a nice evening walking through.

Susan passed through an electrical room, turned a darkened corner, and came to a short hallway that ended in a single black, wrought-iron door. Its only distinguishing features were a square viewport pockmarked with dark circles and a coin slot, like one that might belong on an old newspaper stand. She came to a halt before the door, reached into her purse for a gold coin, and dropped it into the slot. The viewport cover slid aside with a resounding clack, revealing through the circles a pair of suspicious eyes on a face rendered almost green by some light above. The eyes stared at her for another moment, and then the door unlocked with another clack and swung open inwards. The iron portal might as well have served as some mythical portal to the underworld.

Susan stepped through into the Continental's speakeasy. A riot of sounds and smells greeted her: conversations between dozens of people mingled with the jazz band they had on this evening. Cigarette smoke battled a bevy of perfumes and cologne for primacy, while various snacks and bar food contributed their own aromas. The speakeasy itself looked like it had come straight from Prohibition – and knowing the Continental, there was a very good chance that was actually the case. Green and red lamps overhead cast a curious mix of light and shadows. The architecture and furnishings were an art deco celebration of the excess of the Roaring Twenties, with inverted conical chandeliers hanging low between pillars of swirling marble. Mirrors disguised as windows gave the space a strange feeling of infinite expanse, as if she really had walked into another world.

The stage and floor dominated the middle third of the speakeasy. Mournful saxophone tunes sounded over the chatter coming from multiple round tables set around the floor. Men and women packed these spots; a smorgasbord of some of the world's deadliest, in the finest eveningwear. Susan nodded to several as she moved past the space. With the Wick contract gone, she wondered briefly how many were getting snatched up by the groups jockeying for power in the wake of his rampage. Felix Kerranus gave her a polite nod and tipped a hand towards the empty chair at his table, but she shook her head and moved towards the bar. He was nice enough – and could practically work black magic with an assault rifle – but she wasn't feeling too much like… _professional_ company tonight.

The bar ran along over half the length of the speakeasy. Rows of bottles both classic and exotic lined the wall behind it. The old wooden surface had all the unavoidable nicks and marks and patina of long use, but it was clean and well cared for, functional despite its seeming age as with so many things about the Continental. Susan sidled up to an empty spot, glad that the bulk of the activity seemed to be at the tables on the floor. It left her with a good meter's clearance on either side, just right given her mood.

"Susan!" The barkeeper moved on up, a warm grin on her lips despite the cold cast of the green light above. She had her hair bundled up and out of the way, highlighting her strong cheekbones and jaw. A sleeveless, low-cut shirt showed off the extensive tattoo design on one arm and a fair bit of cleavage. Its dark color contrasted with her pale skin, making her seem to glow in the relative darkness. "Welcome back."

"Addy," said Susan. "Good to be back."

The other lady eyed her over. "Looking good. I thought you were in Brazil for a while?"

"That's right."

"No tan? You're still as pale as I am here." Addy held up one white hand.

"It was a… work trip," Susan said. "I didn't get to spend much time on the beaches, it was all indoors and underground."

"Welcome to the life, huh?" Addy said, grinning and spreading her hands.

Susan laughed quietly. "Yes indeed."

"So, what's on the palette tonight?"

Susan sighed. "I'm a little tempted to go with just a martini tonight."

"Aww, that's no fun," Addy said with a playful pout.

"Okay, okay." Susan straightened, thought for a moment. "Alright, how about… a Jupiter?"

"Now that's more like it!" Addy's grin was infectious as she turned away and began gathering ingredients. This was something they'd been doing for a while now; Addy had a standing challenge with Susan to stump her with a drink order. So far the assassin had never managed it; the Continental's barkeeper seemed to have an encyclopedic mind for cocktail recipes. She'd never even seen Addy consult a recipe list. And watching her work was seeing an artist in action. "So," Addy said as she scooped ice into a Boston shaker, "it's been that kind of day, huh?"

"It has been that kind of day," Susan affirmed. "This city's about to go to hell in a handbasket, courtesy of John Wick."

"Don't judge him too harshly." Addy shrugged sympathetically. "He just lost his wife. He got out of all this for her, you know. Losing that kind of center – that can drive anybody to do all sorts of things."

"Not just anybody could have taken down Viggo Tarasov."

"True enough." The drink, strained into a cocktail glass, looked like a swirling cloud of light gray ashes. _Like the remnants of Tarasov's empire_ , Susan thought. "Don't look now," Addy said, leaning over as she slid Susan's drink across the aged counter, "but I think you've caught somebody's eye."

Susan stiffened instinctively. "Where?"

"Left shoulder, coming up." Addy lowered her voice so she was barely audible over the band and background conversation. "Ooh, he's a looker." She straightened as somebody slipped into the space next to Rizzi. "What can I get you?"

"A Sazerac, please." The voice was melodiously masculine and sounded about as tired as Susan felt. She raised her glass and was about to take a sip when it addressed her. "Have we met?"

Susan finally turned to the man – and went very still. It was him: the guest across the hall. The one at Tarasov's safe house with the Chinese sword who'd pitched her from the window. He wore a black suit that would have fit in any number of firms in the city and a shirt that was such a dark red it nearly gleamed charcoal in the speakeasy lighting.

Brighter red was the thin line of the nick she'd landed earlier. His gaze roamed over her face, a thoughtful quirk in his lips as he took in her features. Did he recognize her?

She fumbled for a response. "Um, I'm in room seven-twelve," she finally settled on. "You on the same floor?"

"Ah, seven-thirteen," he said, nodding. "Right, you had the flower coat in the lobby."

"I'm flattered you remember." Maybe he didn't recognize her from the safe house after all. That made sense: why would he approach her otherwise? Susan smiled politely; part of her just wanted him to go away and leave her alone. A more rebellious part hoped he'd keep talking.

"It was quite lovely." He turned back to the bar as Addy returned with the Sazerac. "Thank you."

"Enjoy,' Addy said with a quick glance at Susan. She moved away as another guest further down the bar raised two fingers to get her attention.

The man picked up the glass with his left hand and brought it up, smelling it appreciatively before taking a sip. As he lowered the drink he extended his other hand to her. "Elijah Wu."

She clasped his hand. It wasn't so much a handshake as an old-fashioned declaration between two warriors of honest parley and no hidden blades. Not exactly literal truth in her case with a Makora strapped to her thigh, but the metaphorical statement remained. "Susan Rizzi."

His eyebrows lifted. "The Lady of Blades. What a pleasure."

Susan groaned, rolled her eyes. "You keep your head down, do things neat and professional. Then _one_ contract goes off the rails and you end up with a goddamn title."

Wu grinned crookedly. "Off the rails? Word is you took out four marks using a knife. While wearing… not very much."

Susan rolled her eyes again. "It's always that part that gets exaggerated. It was a masquerade; I was in an evening gown. And it was three marks."

"Still impressive."

"It wasn't by choice. I couldn't get a gun into the venue. Not to mention everything else that went wrong. The fourth target choked to death on an hors d'oeuvre – that was what screwed my plan in the first place."

Wu raised his glass towards her. "I can relate."

A breath of laughter escaped from her. "Why? You dress up in evening gowns often?"

He returned her grin. "Contracts that go… off the rails."

"Do tell." Susan mentally kicked herself. Why had she said that? _Just stay away_.

"Alright." Wu leaned on the bar, still facing her. "There was this one contract. Squirrelly target – had escape plans for any situation, any place. I caught up with him in Taipei, tracked him through the metro. Turned out it was an open contract. There were a half-dozen others looking to close it out aboard the train car. The whole damn thing turned into a mess real quick."

Susan arched an eyebrow. "That Taipei Metro thing? That was you?"

"Partially. I did mention the six others?"

"I caught that, yes. So how big a role did you play?"

"Well, the guy who ended up on the opposite track under the incoming train? He was the contract."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, that was me." Wu took another sip. "Also, an accident."

"An accident?"

"You know how it is with open contracts. Everybody wants to be the only one who fulfills it. We were all so busy trying to remove each other from the equation that the mark went ignored. He was trying to get out of the car, got caught between Leng and myself. I shoved him out of the way. He wasn't supposed to go out the window like that."

"So you got the credit for the contract then?"

"I did. Mind you, getting out of the metro was something else entirely."

"I'll bet it was," Susan said. She realized she was leaning towards him.

"Speaking of throwing people through windows…" Wu's smile vanished. "How much is Fabbro paying you?"

Rizzi's blood froze. "What are you talking about?"

Wu brought a finger up and swiped it gently across the nick she'd given him. "That was a close one – closer than anyone's gotten in a while." He nodded to her. "You seem none the worse for the defenestration."

"Wasn't my first fall."

"I'm glad you're unfazed."

Susan narrowed her eyes; there hadn't been any hint of sarcasm or flippancy from him. "Why? You're the one who threw me."

"My apologies. The demands of business." Wu tapped his nick. "Much as I hope this was."

She shrugged noncomitally.

"I recognized Fabbro's men and vehicles at the safe house. How much is he paying you?"

Susan took another sip. Addy's artistry really deserved to be better appreciated without such concerns, she mused. She looked into Wu's eyes. "Why do you care?"

"I'll offer you more to walk away. How much?"

 _That_ was a surprise. "And you would do that… why?"

Wu opened his mouth, closed it as he continued gazing at Susan. "Call it… enlightened self-interest. I don't think today was the last time Fabbro and my client are going to clash. I don't need any more scars, so I'd like to remove you from the equation – peacefully."

"You don't think you can take me?"

"After today's performance? I'd rather not find out one way or the other. How much?"

"You're serious…" Susan stared at him for a moment. She shook her head. "I'm under contract. It's not about the money."

Wu sighed. "That's it?"

"What else is there? I'm under contract."

"That's admirable, Rizzi. That really is. I don't want to kill you."

She'd heard that before, of course. Usually it was just a platitude – a polite way to say, _don't take this personally, but I'm going to kill you and get on with my day._ Something about Wu made her think he actually meant it. "After today's performance," she echoed, "what makes you think you can?"

"Things may be different next time."

She stared at the other killer coldly. "Is that a threat? Remember where we are."

He held his hands up. "I know. No business on Continental premises. Don't worry; I heard what happened to Perkins. I'm not talking about breaking into your room or anything like that. I meant out there – things _will_ escalate."

"Hmm. I suppose Tiger Shun has never been known for restraint." Susan smirked at the faint surprise Wu tried to hide. "You're not the only one who can make an observation. Shun prefers working with Asians anyway – that was an easy one."

"Then you know how he responds to perceived threats."

She shrugged. "Still doesn't change the fact that I'm under contract."

"Like I said, I admire that. I really do." He tipped his glass towards her in another toast. "Just out of curiosity then: how much does it take to buy such loyalty from you?"

"You really wanna know, huh? Susan cocked her head. "Fine. Fabbro's paying me twenty percent over the standard rate for ongoing, on-call."

Now Wu raised an eyebrow. "That's a fair bit less than the Wick contract."

"That's because it was the _Wick_ contract."

"Fair point." Wu smiled wistfully at her. "I'm sorry I couldn't talk you out of Fabbro's offer. Have a good evening, Miss Rizzi."

"And you, Mister Wu." Susan nodded to him, watching as he slipped away into the crowd of the speakeasy. She took another sip of the cocktail in her hand, barely tasting the delicately balanced notes as her mind dwelled on other things.

Addy came back, leaning over the bar with a playful grin. "Aww, did you shoot him down?"

"Not yet, Addy," Susan said with one last glance to where Wu had vanished. "Not yet."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

While the city never truly slept in its entirety, the morning hours still shifted activity into another level of frenetic Manhattan life, like a boxer finding another surge of energy in the eighth round. The gentle knock came just as she finished dressing. Stepping over to the door of her room, Susan cracked it open expecting a member of the hotel staff. Wu looked back at her through the gap. "Morning."

Susan frowned. "Hi," she said slowly. "What's going on?"

"Two things. First…" Wu held a pistol magazine up to the door, butt first. "I believe you dropped this yesterday."

Her eyes widened, recognizing the P-07 magazine she'd left at the safe house during yesterday's fracas. She opened the door slightly and took the mag, felt her fingertips brush against his. "Um, thanks."

"Professional courtesy," Wu said, shrugging. "P-07 Duty, huh? How's it compare to the old CZ-75?"

"Not bad," Susan said. "Size makes it easier to conceal. It has all the modern features, the usual. I do prefer HK's VP9, but the Duty is a sweet enough shooter-" She paused, frowned. "Why am I telling you this?"

He grinned. "Well, I did ask."

"Right." She arched an eyebrow, suppressing her own grin. "And the second thing?"

"Care to grab some breakfast?"

"What?"

"Breakfast. Morning meal – or at least traditionally consumed in the morning. I suppose anytime after you wake up is applicable, really."

"I know what breakfast is, Wu. Why are you asking me to it?"

"It's been a while since I've been here, and that was more passing through. I hear the food is good here."

"It is. That doesn't answer my question."

"Because eating alone is boring. You're much more engaging than staring at a wall."

Susan laughed despite herself. "Thanks."

"I'm pretty sure I'm better company than a wall, too."

"You threw me out a window."

"For which I apologized."

"Uh-huh." Susan smirked. "I'm not sure I'd want to share a meal with you."

"Ouch."

She shut the door.

* * *

"Good morning. A table for two?" The Continental's staff member wore a neat uniform, spotless as usual.

"Please," Wu said.

"Right this way." He picked up two menus bound in heavy maroon leather and ushered the two into the dining room. The Continental's restaurant space was done up in the same elegance as the rest of the hotel, albeit with a slight hunting lodge theme. Round wooden chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling. Tables carved from what looked like cross-sections of trees sat scattered around, far enough away from each other to give occupants comfortable privacy. Dark wood and leather chairs completed the look. A dozen or so people sat around the room already.

The server led them to a table and seated them. Wu looked through the menu. "So, what's good here?"

"I've never had a bad dish here," Susan said. "They do have fantastic benedicts. The coffee's no slouch either."

"Hotel coffee?" Wu made no effort to hide the skepticism in his voice.

"You'd be surprised."

"Alright, I'm trusting you," he said with a smile.

"Your funeral."

"We'll see." Elijah glanced through the menu again as Susan stared at him over the top of her own.

A server came over, took their orders, and vanished into the back. He returned several minutes later bearing a tray with a silver kettle and a pair of delicate ceramic cups. He laid the set out, poured measures into each one, then disappeared again to give them space. Susan watched the other assassin take a sip and close his eyes. Finally she couldn't help it. "Why are you doing this?"

"What? Breaking bread?"

Susan took a sip of the coffee, savored the bittersweet notes, the hint of citrus. Then she motioned at the table between them. " _This_. You know we're probably going to end up killing each other, right?"

Wu shrugged.

"I'm probably going to do it with a bullet from the mag you returned to me."

"Probably," he said, nodding. "You're not likely taking me with a blade."

"Confident of that, are we?"

"Well, nickname notwithstanding."

"That still doesn't answer my question," Susan said. "Why do this? You know nothing good can come of it."

Another shrug. "Who else would we have breakfast with?"

Susan frowned. "We didn't get into this line of work to make friends."

"Perhaps not," Wu acknowledged. "Doesn't mean we can't be civil in the off-hours."

"Civil? What – is this a date?"

"It's breakfast," Wu said, fiddling with his coffee cup. "This life often gets in the way of…"

"Breakfast?" Susan said, looking into his eyes for a moment before he glanced away. She recognized the shadow there – the well-disguised loneliness and wariness that came with a life of distrust and utter violence.

She'd felt it herself often enough.

Wu looked back at her, a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. He nodded slightly, meeting her gaze. "Breakfast."

Susan returned the nod. A flutter pulsed through her at the unexpected moment of connection. She beat it down by taking another sip of coffee. _He's still a competitor._ "What are you hoping to accomplish?"

"I'm hoping to enjoy some good food with what seems to be fine company."

She rolled her eyes. "Is this some kind of west coast thing? Or do you just have a penchant for getting to know the people you might have to kill?"

"Well, you know how it is," he said, grinning. "Be polite, be professional, have-"

"A plan to kill _everybody_ you meet. Yes, I'm aware of it. Most people don't take it quite so literally," she said with another sip. Jamaican Blue Mountain, she recognized. She'd always thought that particular coffee overpriced and overrated, but it was no surprise that it would find its way onto the Continental's menu.

"We kind of have to, don't we? But like I said, I'm hoping to avoid that particular outcome here."

"Fine, then you walk away from your contract."

"Careful," Elijah said. "That's starting to sound an awful lot like business talk." He grinned as he said that though, and Susan couldn't resist returning it, no matter how briefly. The grin faded from his face almost as quick as it had from her. "It's not that simple."

"It never is." The server returned that minute with their dishes and she fell silent as he laid them out. She snatched up her fork and knife and cut into one of the benedicts, slicing through the hollandaise sauce into the poached egg below. The vibrant yellow yolk oozed out into the strips of shredded ham. Susan speared a chunk, relished the slight crunch of the toasted muffin combined with the savory richness – the perfect thing after getting the crap beaten out of her the previous day. The Continental's standards hadn't fallen.

Wu took a bite of his own benedict, chewed, and nodded after a moment. "That _is_ really good. I'm glad I took the suggestion."

"Anytime." Was this what regular people did? Sit down at breakfast without plans to kill each other? What was hers, she considered briefly? He was right; not likely hand-to-hand. His reach and mass gave him natural advantages, and that brawl yesterday showed he was no slouch at grappling. Don't get close. Plan for armor: modern ballistic vests being what they were, he'd likely be wearing one underneath the suit. Too risky for handguns, then. Take him at a distance with a rifle. She tried to picture it and realized he was staring at her, waiting for a reply to something. "I'm sorry?"

"Were you here for the Wick contract? You got in the other day. Just behind the crowd, it seems."

"Two mil for a single job brings a lot of people out of the shadows. You?"

"The same."

"Hmm." Susan took another bite. "May I ask you something?"

He nodded.

"How'd you end up working for the Eighth Tiger?" She glanced over Elijah's features again. Addy was right, damn her. "You're not all Chinese. Shun is Silver Mountain: they're not exactly welcoming to…"

"Half-breed mongrels?"

"I didn't say that."

"I know. Don't worry, I've heard it all before. You're right – the Silver Mountain is… traditionalist about certain things."

"So you're not a member."

"No. But I guess tradition gives way to pragmatism when it comes to certain tasks."

"More deniability too?"

"That thought had crossed my mind," Elijah admitted.

"Why work for them then?"

"I have history with them out in China. Besides, on some level a client's a client. You've never been in the same position?"

"I… I guess. Well, I suppose right now this thing with Fabbro is like that. But there _are_ contracts I won't take."

Wu looked her over for a moment. "No children?"

" _No_ children."

He sat back, a slight smile in his eyes. "That's good to hear."

Susan wasn't sure why she felt the sudden burst of gladness in her chest. She hid her grin with another bite.

"So what about you and Fabbro?" he asked. "Isn't he called 'The Blacksmith?'"

"Ugh." Susan flipped an errant strand of hair from her forehead. "Yeah, that's not a pleasant breakfast conversation."

"Gotcha." Elijah took several more bites and they ate in silence for a few minutes. "This is really good," he said, leaning forward. "Are you feeling adventurous? We could get more food."

"That's adventurous?"

"There could be waffles involved."

"Ooh, watch out." Susan chuckled. "Man on the edge."

"Living dangerously."

"I could-" Her phone buzzed. She tugged it out as she said, "Excuse me."

"Of course."

Susan checked the message and frowned. "Sorry, duty calls. Maybe another time?"

"Another time." Wu rose as well when she stood from the table. "Susan." She glanced back at her name. "I won't look for you out there."

A pause. So much for being regular people having breakfast. She rolled several responses around, then finally nodded. "Likewise."

The last thing she heard from the table was the insistent buzz of Wu's own phone. She kept walking.

* * *

"I don't care! You get that truck here on time!" Tiger Shun's voice came through the door to where Elijah waited. The Silver Mountain leader spoke in Chinese and sounded belligerent as he often did. "Those country peasants in the south don't have anything to contest with!"

A moment later the ornate door cracked open and a guard nodded at Elijah. Following him in, Elijah walked in to the room where Eighth Tiger Shun sat, fuming at a cellphone. Shun shoved the phone to one side before looking up at Elijah. His expression went from irritation and annoyance to placid and welcoming in an instant – a meaningless façade, Elijah knew. "Wu- _cike_ ," he said in Chinese, using the old archaic phrase for an assassin-retainer. "Come in, please. I must commend you on your work yesterday."

"You are too kind," Elijah replied, also in Chinese. "The matter could have gone better."

"It could have, yes." Shun rapped his fingers on the table. "But it was handled satisfactorily. That will suffice this time."

"You're too kind," Elijah said again.

"We have more work for you. Work befitting your talents, Wu- _cike_."

"Of course."

"You already encountered Marco Fabbro's men yesterday. A boorish upstart, that one."

Elijah nodded but said nothing. He hadn't mentioned Susan Rizzi's presence yesterday either when they'd returned.

"There is an operation of his at this address." Shun slid a folded piece of paper across the table towards Elijah. "A message must be sent."

"I understand. What kind of operation is this?"

Eighth Tiger Shun shrugged dismissively. "Something about documents and forgeries. Not utterly vital, but not unimportant to Fabbro either. So he has not many guards there."

"I see. And how… _thorough_ a message do you want to send?"

"Let the blood of his underlings be the ink upon which the note is delivered." Shun stared for a moment. "No survivors."

* * *

"There's the truck," 'Jonesy' Tony said. "Right on time, the poor fuckers."

One of the pertinent items on the flash drive she'd recovered had been scheduled shipments that Viggo had arranged from Atlanta. This particular truck carried a shipment from the Kel-Tec Corporation in Florida. With Viggo out of the picture the weapons would be a huge boon to whoever claimed them, and Fabbro intended to be that one who did. The massive truck currently waited in a lot filled with a dozen other similar vehicles, only distinguished by a splash of graffiti slightly too clean for some street work. It was a mark of identification, Susan knew, like a smear of lamb's blood on a doorframe to make the angel of death pass by.

Shifting in the seat of the SUV parked across the street, she glanced out the tinted windows down both ways again. Still clear, but she didn't know how long that would last if word about the shipments had gotten out. She leaned over towards Tony and the other man in the car. "Alright, keep an eye out. Let's not get any bystanders involved."

"Why not?" Tony asked. "You scared?"

"I'd rather not give law enforcement any more reason to get involved," Susan replied. "Gunning down innocents in broad daylight is not a good way to stay surreptitious."

Tony scoffed. "The cops? Mister Fabbro's got people in the force. Shit, everybody's who anybody's got people in the cops."

"Connections are resources," Susan said. "Non-renewable ones, most of the time. You burn an asset too often, you don't have it anymore. So let's do this nice and neat. Wait here. I'll see if I can do this peacefully."

"Are you serious?"

"The goal is the shipment. If we can talk them into handing it over that's the best outcome. Stay here."

Susan climbed out of the car and crossed the street. She slipped into the lot but took a circuitous route towards the truck in question, keeping out of sight right until she'd made it to the driver's door of the cab. Gripping her pistol in its holster with one hand, she reached out and knocked twice. A moment later the window rolled down and a capped head peered out and down at her. The shadows hid the face. "Morning," she said. "Waiting for anything in particular?"

"Who're you?" the truck driver asked.

"If you're waiting for Viggo Tarasov to make a pickup, you're going to be disappointed."

The driver didn't respond.

"He's dead."

Still no response. Susan tilted her head to the side, trying to get a better angle – and felt a sudden jolt of adrenaline as she saw the Asian features beneath the cap rim.

She was already moving when the driver's hand cleared the window clutching a pistol.

The air rang with a sudden crack as the man squeezed the trigger, but Rizzi had already thrown herself against the body of the truck out of his field of fire. He swung his arm out and around, trying to bring the pistol to bear. Rizzi brought her free hand up, caught his rear of the pistol, and wrenched it aside with a savage twist that sprang the grip from his hand and snapped his finger caught in the trigger guard. His shout of pain cut off as Rizzi brought her own pistol up and shot him through the head. An alarmed shout came from the other side of the cab and she heard the far door getting kicked open.

Rizzi took a long step to the side, bringing her hands together and shoving the VP9 out into an isosceles stance as she moved to clear the truck. A second man rounded the hood, carrying an MP5K in both hands. Rizzi swung her sights over his chest and squeezed the trigger twice before he could aim at her. An instant later the sights aligned over his face and she put a third shot into the target automatically. She moved over and kicked the fallen submachine gun away, checking the cab just in case there was another one in there.

Clear.

The spike of adrenaline started fading, and Rizzi felt her hands trembling as she circled the truck. She blew out a long, low breath. Tony and Fabbro's other men ran up a minute later, their guns drawn. She waved them down. "Pop the back," she ordered. "Get the bodies in there and let's move."

"So much for doing it peacefully, huh?" Tony said.

"It's Silver Mountain," Rizzi said, looking over the second man splayed out on the asphalt. The hollow point round to his face had rendered _that_ particular method of identification impossible, but the spiraling tattoo coverage on his arms and shoulders left little doubt as to the Chinese man's allegiance. "They must have gotten word of the shipment before us."

"Chink assholes," Tony muttered.

"Hey, over here!" one of Fabbro's other men called as the rear of the truck's cargo container slid open with a series of clacks. "There's a body already here!"

Rizzi and Tony moved over. Tossed behind a half dozen pallets of sealed crates, the body in question wore a shirt with the logo of the trucking company and had two bullet holes in the back. "Guess we know what happened to the original driver," Rizzi said. "Load the others. We shouldn't linger."

"Alright Jimmy," Tony said. "You're up. Get the truck running. You know where to go. The rest of you, bring the cars around. One in front, one in back. We're not takin' chances with this." He turned to Rizzi. "That's twice now we've run into the Silver Mountain in two days."

 _You weren't there yesterday,_ Susan thought, but held her silence.

"We're gonna have to do something about this before it gets out of control," he continued.

 _Things aren't exactly in control now._

* * *

The operation was a dingy office space in one of the midtown towers like one of countless others. Elijah Wu stepped out of the elevator and adjusted his dark leather gloves. He stayed in the little nook as he checked both sides of the hallway it led to. The door at the end had a Lifestyle Prints logo on it. That was it, then. Wu gave the combat earplugs a final tweak, making sure they were seated well. He rolled his shoulders, loosened the long coat covering his gear, and walked towards the door.

The door opened smoothly and quietly, unleashing a cacophony of noise. Printers of various sizes filled the air with mechanical growls, scanners beeped and hummed, and the rattle of keyboards underpinned it all. Wu had checked the floor layout before his arrival; the space was divided into two equal chambers. This first one was only half full of office equipment. The first part had what would have been a reception area in a regular office.

Here, it was a guardhouse of sorts. Three men sat behind heavy metal desks, bored expressions on their faces. One had his phone out, the sounds of whatever game he was playing adding to the noise. Another had his nose buried in some pornographic magazine while the third had his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes closed.

 _That's almost unfair._

As Phone Guard looked up, Wu flung one side of his coat open and seized the Israeli-made X95 hanging off his shoulder on a single point sling. The stubby little bullpup made for a remarkably compact little assault rifle, and although the suppressor mounted over the barrel added some length and weight, its benefits were well worth it. His thumb flicked the safety off as he shouldered the weapon, sighting in on the leftmost guard through the red-dot sight mounted on the top rail. He pressed the trigger twice, swiveled to the next guard to the right, put two more rounds into that target, and then swiveled again to double-tap the last guard. The whole thing had taken less than two seconds. Stepping around the desks, Wu quickly looked the guards over, putting a final round into the center guard's head as he still struggled to reach the SMG slung beneath the desk. The sharp _crack_ filled the room; contrary to popular depiction, a suppressor did not turn a rifle into a whisper-silent device. With the attachment the gunshot went from 'hearing damage' to 'startlingly loud.' Best not to give anybody around time to call the police.

An alarmed shout came from the next room. Tucking the X95 tighter into his shoulder Wu stormed forward towards the doorway, staying low. He burst through the opening and immediately sidestepped to the right, clearing the killbox as quickly as possible. A quick scan of the room showed four men scattered amongst the clusters of printers and monitors. Two of them were halfway out of their seats, rising to see what the noise was about. The red dot of his optic flicked over to the rightmost head and he pressed the trigger.

A five-five-six round did _horrible_ things to a human head, but Wu barely noticed as he swung the rifle over to the next person standing up. He put a round through the target's chest, kept moving. The closest target was still sitting in his office chair in shock a Wu shot him through the chest and head. The last target had just reached out towards something on his desk when he got Mozambique Drilled. One more circuit around the room verified it was clear of other occupants: nobody hiding under the desks or in a cupboard somewhere.

A clatter from the center of the room drew his attention. Rifle at the ready, Wu moved over to see the second man he'd shot here. Still alive, he groped vainly for an alarm at the desk despite the ragged red stain spreading across his shirt. "I'm sorry," Wu said, and squeezed the trigger.

 _No survivors._

Retreating back to the entrance, Wu checked the hallway to make sure it was clear before letting the bullpup rifle drop on its sling and shifting his coat over to cover it. He'd used less than an entire magazine of ammunition, which was nice. Suppressors got _hot_ fast, and trying to conceal such a weapon after dumping multiple mags through it was most definitely _not fun._ Wu left the office, walked over to the elevator banks, and hit the button to call one. The adrenaline of combat time started wearing off as he waited, and he couldn't keep a grimace off his face as he did so. This was always the worst part of a job: that moment when he came down off the rush and the reality of his work sank its cold fangs into him _._

That room of hapless bastards back there hadn't had any idea of what was going on when he'd waltzed in and executed them. The four in the back, they looked like they'd just been workers. Maybe they didn't even knowJust been in the wrong place at the wrong time, like so many others. The elevator arrived with a chime and he climbed in, fixing his face into a pleasant blankness. It came far easier than it had any right to, he knew. Perhaps that just came with running his soul through the shredder so often. As the elevator coasted downwards he shifted to one side of the doors, just in case.

The doors slid open. Nobody waiting to ventilate him. The receptionist didn't even give him a second glance as Wu left through the fancy glass doors out front. Bless the gloriously isolated office designs that seemed all the rage these days. Strolling out into the streets, Wu mingled in with the crowd of pedestrians walking by.

 _Live to kill another day._

* * *

"I don't care!" Marco Fabbro yelled at Edmondo. "We didn't start this, but we're sure as hell going to finish it if that's what those chinks want!" He swung to Susan, who waited beside one of the ornate pillars in the VIP lounge of Bianco. "You heard what happened?"

Susan nodded. The truck they'd… _liberated_ from the Silver Mountain hijackers had gone to a discrete warehouse in Greenwich, and now by the time they'd gotten back to report to Fabbro he was incensed by the news of what happened to his counterfeiting op. Unable to get hold of any of them, Fabbro had ordered somebody to check it out. Seven killed, so quick and clean that nobody had even been able to trigger the alarm.

"Do something about it," Fabbro said, and nodded to Edmondo.

The expeditor adjusted his spectacles and turned to Susan. "How would you feel about a visit to Chinatown?"

* * *

Rizzi walked up the alley, her hood up against the light drizzle coming down. The damp air amplified the smells of Chinatown: spices and rotting vegetation, cigarette smoke and roasting meats, all clashing together in the mix of human habitation. Her destination lay up ahead on the left, an unassuming doorway in the back of some teahouse. Unassuming except for the tattooed Chinese man in a white undershirt standing outside it, seemingly oblivious to the weather. Red neon lights fluoresced overhead and music came through the door behind him. Rizzi inspected the surroundings as she approached; no cameras. Confident or sloppy. She was about to find out which.

The man flicked his cigarette butt away as she approached. He made no effort to hide his roving gaze. "Private party," he said. "You're not invited, _laowai_."

"That's the best kind of party to crash." Her hand came up, holding her suppressed pistol. He didn't even have time to look surprised before she shot him in the face. As he collapsed Rizzi stepped over him and eased the door open, weapon at the ready. She wasn't sure just how many Silver Mountain members were hanging out in the rear here. Hopefully it wasn't the entire teahouse.

The rear entrance led into a short little brick hallway with doors lining both sides. One looked like it led to a restroom. The other had pulsing music and raucous laughter coming from it. She crept up the hallway, pressed up against one side of the door, and peeked out. It was about what she'd expected: two round tables in a private room, four men at one, three at the other. Green beer bottles and mahjong tiles covered the tables. The men all wore tight, sleeveless shirts that showed off the tattoos decorating their arms. _What is this, the uniform of the day?_ No matter; their attention was on the game before them.

Rizzi leaned out into the doorway. The three dots of the VP9's sights lined up over the back of the closest man's head. The pistol gave a sharp _crack_ and bucked in her hands. The Silver Mountain man's head burst in a puff of blood and bone. Rizzi had already moved on to the next target; another press of the trigger sent a round through that one's head as well. The four at the first table went down before they realized what was happening.

The three at the other table scrambled to get up. She took a long step into the room, clearing the doorway and firing as she went. The one on the far left had his side to her; the first round tore through his throat and she followed up with another shot to the side of his head. The other two made it to their feet. Rizzi tracked the pistol over, worked the trigger four times in one continuous motion and placed two rounds each into their chests. The rightmost man still tried to bring up his machine pistol and she shot him through the head; he went down and stayed down. She moved closer – the last man had collapsed back against his chair and knocked it over on his way down. He gasped for breath, wheezing in the sudden silence. Rizzi lined her pistol up on his forehead and pressed the trigger. The gun locked open as the final round shattered his skull.

That was it then.

Or was it? A sudden nagging sense tickled the back of her mind as Rizzi brushed her coat back to reach for a reload. The second table: she'd killed three, but the mahjong tiles had been arranged for-

Something hit her from behind like a truck, bowling her forward as a pair of arms wrapped around her and squeezed. Her assailant steered her between the tables and rushed her towards the far wall. Rizzi bunched her legs up at the last moment, kicked out against the brick so she wouldn't hit head first. They rebounded off the wall and she found her footing again. Rizzi dropped her weight, bending her knees as she snapped her hands up against the arms encircling her. She took a sliding side step while she thrust her elbows out to loosen her opponent's grasp. He must have known what was coming next as the bear hug disappeared in an instant with the press of his body. She felt a stinging palm strike to the side of her head and turned on her heels to face him. This guy was bigger than the other dead men around the room; he had his hands up at the ready and shifted a step back.

The Silver Mountain fighter launched a side kick with a shout. An accurate one too; it caught the slide of her pistol with an impact that sent a jarring ache up her arm. Rizzi dropped the pistol to intercept his follow-up blow. As the vertical punch came in she stepped forward and to the side, deflecting his arm with her wrist. She rolled her hand over, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him forward off balance. At the same time her other hand grabbed the knife clipped to her waist. The blade deployed with a crisp click and she rammed it up through his armpit. Rizzi released his arm, ducked another punch, and hit the inside of his knee with a hammer blow. She stabbed him through the inner thigh and as he reeled back Rizzi stepped in, seized his hair, and plunged the blade through his throat. She ripped the blade out, hooked her leg around his, and slammed him down to the floor. Rizzi held the man down as he bled out; with three punctured arteries it didn't take long.

Breathing hard, Rizzi wiped the blade off and retracted it with a swipe of her thumb. She retrieved her pistol, reloaded it, and swept the room again. Stepping back out into the hallway, she saw the other door was now open and indeed led to a restroom – undoubtedly where the last man had been. She grimaced. _Sloppy._

The music was still going, and there weren't any alarmed screams. Still, not a good idea to loiter. Tucking the pistol under her coat, Rizzi left the teahouse and walked off into the night.

* * *

"Good evening." The Continental's concierge looked up blandly at her from behind the counter as if somebody walking in with a bloody coat and the distinctive smell of gunpowder was an everyday affair – which admittedly for him probably was. "How may I be of service?"

"I'd like to arrange some laundry," Susan said. She was pretty sure her coat wasn't in the worst state it had ever been in, but between the blood from her victims and the acrid whiff of propellant that clung to her like a cloud wasn't particularly presentable.

"Of course." Charon slid a ticket across the counter towards her. "Somebody will be by your room shortly to pick up the load."

"Thanks." Susan turned towards the elevator, then paused and swung back towards the concierge. "Any space in the self-serve room?"

"We have been busy, but there should be plenty of space currently."

"Alright, thanks."

Charon gave her another nod and Susan headed for the elevators.

* * *

As it turned out, there was only one other person in the self-serve room. Elijah Wu looked up as she entered the chamber. One of the perks of the Continental, it was a workshop in the basement that had reinforced walls and all the tools and supplies for weapons maintenance. Several workbenches filled the space and Wu occupied one of them. "Hey," he said with a nod.

Susan returned the nod – and to her own surprise moved to the workbench next to his. The ventilation fans in the ceiling filled the air with a constant, gentle hum. She laid out her pistol, disassembled it with swift, familiar movements, and started running a bore brush through the barrel. Out of the corner of her gaze she noticed Wu eyeing her. "What is it?"

"That's the VP9, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"You mind if I…?" Wu nodded at the frame. Susan shrugged and handed it to him. She watched him test out the grip; saw how he shifted it around in his palm. "That's not bad at all. Interesting mag release. Customizable backstrap, right?"

"Panels, too," Susan said. "Any configuration."

Wu nodded approvingly as he inspected the internal mechanisms. "Been a while since HK's done a striker pistol. Yeah, that's nice." He handed the frame back to her, grip first. "I might need to pick one up for myself."

It felt strange, chatting with somebody working for an organization that she'd just killed eight members of. "It's a good gun." Strange, but not unpleasant. Susan eyed the field-stripped bullpup on his workbench and reminded herself that there was a good chance he'd been the one who'd cleaned out Fabbro's operation that day. "That looks like the cutest little baby Tavor."

He grinned. "You ever try concealing a full length AR? This thing's two feet long. Compact and reliable."

"And a Jericho," she said, nodding at the pistol on his table. "You like Israeli guns, huh?"

"I guess it's a heritage thing."

Susan looked over his features. "So that's the not entirely Chinese part. Yeah, Elijah's not exactly a traditional Chinese name." She stared for another moment, then forced herself to look away. "What's that like, anyways?"

"What, mixed blood?" He chuckled. "Like… being stuck between two worlds sometimes, I guess. Good practice for this life, maybe."

"I see." She nodded at the disassembled rifle. "A self-identification choice?"

"Hey, they make solid weapons."

"I wasn't knocking it." She tilted her head to the side, looked at Elijah. "Ask you something?"

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. "Shoot."

"Ha ha. What's with the sword? Is that a heritage thing too?"

His grin erupted in full force. "That's an 'I spent years training under a crotchety old _sifu_ and earned that blade' thing."

"Uh huh." Susan crossed her arms. "Isn't that slightly conspicuous?"

"That's what long coats are for. Also, you'd be surprised what you can get away with claiming that it's for performance or reenactment purposes."

Susan laughed and shook her head. "Better to not draw that kind of attention to begin with."

"How professional." Elijah smiled. "And boring."

"I thought living in interesting times was an old curse?"

He shrugged. "Maybe." Elijah went back to cleaning out the rifle in silence. As he finished and began reassembling it he looked up at her again, his face serious. "But given what we do, who's to say we aren't already accursed?"

Susan could only nod as he finished putting the rifle together and racked the charging handle. How many people had died by her hand over the last years? She hadn't kept count; she really didn't want to know. "Maybe we are."


	4. Chapter 4

"This is unacceptable," Tiger Shun said. "Sloppy, utterly sloppy. Nobody can let their vigilance falter in these days. They should have known better. Ensure the bodies are taken care of."

"Already done," Xiao Ma said. The slender beauty in a deep red _qipao_ looked like she should have been adorning a magazine cover instead of helping run an international criminal enterprise, but her name was known even in the west coast branches of the Silver Mountain – along with her reputation for quiet, efficient ruthlessness. She turned to look at Elijah and smiled warmly. "Do you think it was Fabbro's work? Retaliation?"

Elijah scratched the corner of his chin. Xiao Ma put on such a friendly persona – dangerous, he reminded himself. "How were they killed? Any distinguishing characteristics?"

She glanced down at the tablet in her hand. "Bodies mostly intact. Close range pistol rounds, it seems. One with multiple knife wounds. Quick and clean." Her voice carried a hint of approval.

Elijah thought back to last night – and the encounter in the Continental's arms maintenance room. Pistol rounds, the timing… He shrugged. "It could be. But there're other groups moving, right?"

"Of course," Tiger Shun said. "But Fabbro is like a petulant child, petty and lacking self-control. This is likely his doing."

"It's not wise to jump to conclusions," Elijah said before he could stop himself. He went on despite Shun's brief glare. "Tunnel vision in a fight – physical or otherwise – can keep you from noticing other important threats."

"He's right," Xiao Ma said to Shun. "Don't lose the corners for a patch in the center of the board."

"Indeed." Shun nodded once. "Wu- _cike_ , there is more work to occupy your hands."

"Of course," Elijah said. "Name the target."

* * *

"Bennick Johannes," Fabbro said, seated at one of the tables in Bianco's VIP lounge. Late morning meant the opulent room was empty save for Fabbro and Edmondo. He glanced out the one-way glass window overlooking the main floor of the restaurant, which had a scattering of people seated around.

"Should I know him?" Susan asked.

"Probably not. He's a former associate of Viggo."

"Okay."

"Johannes wasn't important," Fabbro said with a dismissive wave. "He runs the Midnight Club."

"You said he _wasn't_ important, implying he is now."

"Got it in one, doll." Fabbro flexed his hands, cracking his knuckles. "Benny's gone and gotten himself some delusions of grandeur. Decided he wants a piece of the action. He's trying to rally some of the remnants of Viggo's posse around himself."

"If he was a nobody before, would that actually work?"

"It could," Edmondo said. "There is considerable worry among the survivors that John Wick intends to finish off the survivors. They may feel that banding together now, even under a relatively… low-positioned individual, offers better odds."

"Didn't help Tarasov," Susan remarked.

"And it won't help Benny none either," Fabbro said. "I'm putting a contract on Johannes." He nodded at Susan. "Exclusive to you for now, of course."

"I assume you want this handled quickly?"

"The contract will go public in two days," Fabbro replied. "Oh, and I want it done at the club. Sometimes it's about sending a message."

"That can be arranged. How much?"

"Quarter-mil."

Susan nodded. "Consider it done."

"Remember, two days. Tick-tock."

"Give me the info," she said. "It won't take that long."

Fabbro smirked. "I love me a go-getter. All right, doll. Do your thing."

Susan snagged the little flash drive Edmondo slid towards her and then turned for the stairs. She had a job to do.

* * *

And later, back in the sanctuary of her room at the Continental, as she pored over the data she had on the drive, she knew how she'd do it.

Whatever his importance before or after, Fabbro had evidently been keeping an eye on Johannes for a while. He was a man of simple and predictable habit, as well as one with a penchant for being in the midst of the action – or at least feeling like it. For him, that seemed to mean taking a hands-on role at Midnight. He was at the club on a nightly basis from ten to the wee hours of the night. Always in the rear offices for at least half that time, although he seemed to also enjoy spending time out on the floor receiving accolades from club-goers like a lord holding court. Not a great dancer by most accounts, he seemed to prefer smoozing up the private tables. Still far too public. The rear offices – that was where to do it. Of course, getting _into_ those offices would be the trick…

This would be an interesting night, Susan thought. She switched over to the floor plans of Midnight and stared, looking at entrance and exit points. The trouble with sending such messages was that inevitably bystanders would be in the way. And a club full of partiers… She grimaced, thinking of Wick's recent rampage through the Red Circle. Only he would have the flair to go loud in a nightclub like that and conspicuously avoid shooting up the innocents in his path.

Crazy.

But then, what about their lives could be considered sane?

* * *

Looking at herself in the mirror, Susan grimaced. Showing up in a tactical vest wasn't exactly the most subtle way to infiltrate the club, so she'd tried on something suitable for an evening of partying. The combination of low-cut top and a thigh-length skirt made her cringe. It wasn't _quite_ the epitome of sleaze, but it was punching in a similar weight class. It also made concealing a decent weapon horribly impractical.

No, it definitely wouldn't do.

She chuckled ruefully as she stripped the outfit off. How many clubgoers put such thoughts into what they'd wear so they _wouldn't_ attract attention? A different skirt: professional in length and look, with a matching dress shirt. Unexciting, but not unfitting for a place like Midnight. Easier to conceal her pistol as well. Much better.

"I'm just here for the drinks," Susan said to her reflection as she tweaked her posture slightly and adjusted her reflection. There: a working woman stared back at her, single and cynical, tired of the world and its bullshit. The act should let her blend right in.

Only it wasn't entirely an act, was it? She knew how easily that look had come to her. And yes, while she doubted most other professional women her age dealt with quite the same minutiae, in some ways everybody shared the same fundamental struggles of-

Nope. Now was not the time for this. Susan shook off the thoughts. "You made your choices," she muttered to her reflection.

* * *

The line outside Midnight was long, but not as bad as Susan had feared. Chalk it up to the approaching winter, a week night, or the denizens of the city awakening to the fact that something bad was going down in the shadows – whatever the case, it took her less than an hour to get into the club. The entrance ran through a short rounded tunnel packed with people and done up to look like a nighttime expanse of stars, something rarely naturally seen in the city. The clashing smells of a dozen different types of perfume and cologne masked that of so many bodies packed together while conversations filled the air like the rumbling of a storm. She made her way through the tunnel, wrenched some stranger's hand that got a little too frisky, and sauntered down a short staircase that led to a heavy door vibrating from the noise beyond. The pistol strapped to her inner thigh was a reassuring weight as Susan reached out and tugged the door open, stepping into Midnight.

Pulsing, throbbing electric music greeted her like a physical blast. Dancers crowded the sunken floor dominating the club center, a writhing mass of flesh and fabric swaying in rhythm to the beat. The bar was a two-tiered monstrosity of solid ice slabs staffed by men and women fielding a constant stream of shouted drink orders. A riotous array of lights overhead blinked and flashed, sending strobing beams lancing into the crowd. Scantily dressed women gyrated on poles and platforms suspended from the ceiling, exposed skin practically aglow from the lighting.

Rizzi hung back from the crowd, taking the opportunity to scope out security as eager partygoers pushed past her. There, along the back, in front of a frosted glass dividing wall: two men wearing identical suits, staring out into the crowd with their hands clasped before them. She looked closer; yes, there they were – earpieces coiling down into jacket collars. Now that she knew what to look for, Rizzi scanned the crowd again. Another pair in front of the stairs leading to a VIP lounge with a mirrored window overlooking the dance floor, a trio patrolling the edges of the club. Probably more out of sight; the earpieces probably meant some central security office. Okay: she didn't exactly want to try replicating Wick's stunt of murdering an entire nightclub's worth of guards. Maybe through the kitchens – the blueprints she'd seen showed they were close to the restrooms, and security was often more lax in employee-only zones. Rizzi stepped down further into the club, looking for a-

Dammit.

What was _he_ doing here?

Releasing a sigh, Rizzi headed for the bar. This was a complication she didn't need.

* * *

Pretending to nurse a glass of cheap (but hideously overpriced) whiskey, Wu gave the club interior another once-over. Let people think he was just another guy looking for some female company. He shifted as a man in a tight dress shirt stumbled up to the ice-surfaced bar, reeking of cigarette smoke and tequila.

"Another margarita!" He was blocking Wu's view. Shifting again, the assassin tried to get an angle on the VIP room. That was the most direct route to Johannes' offices. "Hey, babydoll! Buy you a drink?" That probably wasn't directed at him. "I will rock your world, babe! You'll see!" Wu ignored Mister Tequila. He hadn't seen the guards leave the door at all, but neither had he seen servers bearing food or drinks going through, and he strongly doubted the VIP members consisted solely of fasting teetotalers. Another entrance then, used by club staff. "Fine, fine! You crazy bitch! I'm leaving!" He hadn't heard the reply to Mister Tequila's offer, but evidently it hadn't gone well.

Wu turned back to the bar, intending to ask how those lucky guys in the VIP section got their drinks. Just make it sound like idle curiosity. Put a slight slur in his voice, make them think it was the slightly buzzed jealousy of one of the have-nots, covetous of the exclusive world locked behind the doors of rarified access. A hand settled on his shoulder from behind, soft and gentle.

Then the gun muzzle pressed into his back.

Wu put his hands on the edge of the ice-slabbed bar. Whoever it was didn't want him dead – yet. The cold bit into his fingers as he kept still. A trickle of breath brushed against his right ear. "What are you doing here?"

He knew that voice. Turning his head slowly, Wu looked into Susan Rizzi's face, inches from his own. Her eyes held a cold challenge, hard and flat. So this was her business side. He kept his hands on the bar. "I'm just here for a drink," he said, half-shouting to make himself audible over the din of the nightclub.

Rizzi twitched her chin towards his glass. "You haven't taken so much as a sip. You're just fiddling with it now and then."

So she'd been watching him for a while and he hadn't realized. _Stupid. Sloppy. Great way to get yourself killed ._ "What are you doing here?" she said again, digging the muzzle of her pistol into his back. Her body hid the gun between them, making it look like she was just a club guest peering past him to the bar.

"Johannes," Wu said as quietly as he could over the throbbing club beat. "The Silver Mountain wants him out of the picture."

Rizzi's eyes darted around, settled on him, and then she nodded once. "So does Fabbro."

"So what now?" he asked. "Same target, we could-"

"He's mine," Rizzi cut in. "I'm taking the bounty."

"There's no harm in splitting it, and it's a better chance of success."

"I don't need your help. And I don't do jobs with people I don't know."

"You really want to make this a competition?"

"It isn't one." Rizzi leaned in even closer, her lips practically brushing his ear. "All I have to do is squeeze."

"That would also bring security down on you. I thought you were more of a professional than that."

"Sometimes I'm willing to make exceptions," she said. He narrowed his eyes, but the pressure of the muzzle vanished after a moment. "I'm not kidding about this one. My contract."

"You're the one with the drawn firearm," Wu said. He turned slowly. Rizzi wore her coat over something resembling a businesswoman's outfit, though she had its hood hanging loose down the back. Her pistol – the one he'd returned a magazine for, ironically enough – was no longer straight ahead but tilted downward to better conceal it. That also meant it aimed right between his legs. He raised an eyebrow. "Is that necessary? You're already taking my job."

The coldness in Rizzi's eyes thawed momentarily. "Sorry, nothing personal."

Wu glanced down at where her weapon was covering. "That's plenty personal to me." He blew out a breath, looking again at the security around the club, and realized he'd made a decision. "Fine, you want the bounty; I won't get in your way. Let me distract security before you make your move."

A look of surprise flickered across Rizzi's face before vanishing behind her mask. "Why should I trust you? You could just call them down on me and take Johannes yourself."

"And then he'd rabbit as soon as he heard associates were in the club. Look, Silver Mountain just wants him gone – they don't really care who does it. Either way, the job's still finished. If you don't want me there for closing the deal, I can at least make it easier." He stared into her eyes, willing her to see his sincerity.

After another moment she nodded again and the pistol vanished beneath her coat. "Alright. What's your plan?"

Wu panned his gaze around, alighting on Mister Tequila. "It would be a shame if somebody picked a fight with such a cultured gentleman."

Rizzi followed the direction of his gaze to where the other man stood trying to wrap an arm around a young lady in a tube dress, a drink in his other hand. A grin split her face. "Yes, it would."

Wu took a swig of his whiskey – mediocre – and nodded. "See you back at the Continental."

She stepped back, eyes on him the whole time, then slipped into the crowd and vanished in the press of people. _She's good at that,_ he admitted to himself. Counting out another minute and a half to himself, Wu then made his way towards Mister Tequila, deliberately barging people aside to create as much of a wake as he could. The more watchers were drawn to the scene, the better. Stomping up to Mister Tequila, he tapped the intoxicated man o the shoulder.

"Hey, I heard what you said to the lady earlier."

"Huh?" The confusion in Mister Tequila's eyes disappeared as Wu drove a fist into his face.

* * *

Later that night – or rather, very early the next morning – back in his room at the Continental, Elijah sank his knuckles into the ice bucket again with a wince. Punches to the face were hardly his preferred striking method: a palm strike was much less likely to leave you with a broken hand. But he hadn't wanted to risk some keen-eyed member of security wondering why a supposed drunken brawl didn't look like one. Nor had he expected a trio of Mister Tequila's friends to be present. As distractions went, the multi-man brawl that spread onto the dance floor and drew in a good portion of the crowd had been pretty effective. It also stung like hell. Withdrawing his hand from the ice, he flexed and prodded it. Nothing broken, which was good.

That had been foolish. He had no reason to pull that kind of stunt – not really. Yes, it did fit with Eighth Tiger's plans no matter who removed Johannes, but if he was honest with himself that had really just been an excuse. But for what? Was he just being brash, hoping to impress a pretty face? "Yeah, cause that worked out great the last time you tried it," Elijah muttered, thumbing his chest where a pale, ragged scar ran diagonally across his left pec.

It was pride, he told himself. Just professional pride that demanded he be a part of the job completion. Yes, that was it. He sighed. "You picked the wrong line of work for self-reflection."

A pair of quick, quiet knocks at the door interrupted his thoughts. Stepping over, Elijah looked through the peephole to see the opposite door just easing shut in the corner of the view. He pulled his door open, glanced up and down the hallway. Nothing. He looked down; a short stack of gold coins sat in the middle of his doorway. Feeling a smile tug at one corner of his mouth, Elijah bent down and scooped them up. Three coins; that was generous, needlessly so. He nodded at Rizzi's door in case she was watching, then remembered that he was shirtless and stepped back inside, closing the door behind him with a gentle click that sounded disconcertingly like the safety of a gun.

* * *

A thick layer of gray clouds hid the morning sun outside her window when Susan received a message from Edmondo. _Contract fulfillment confirmed. Payment wired._ She checked her accounts briefly to confirm the money was indeed there; that was one of the perks of working for Fabbro – he was a lot more prompt about payment for services rendered than some other clients she'd had in the past. If only some of his people were equally as professional.

She looked up at the knock on her door. Elijah Wu stood on the other side. "Buy you breakfast?" he said.

"Do you intend to make this a regular thing?"

"As long as we're both in town, sure."

She half-grinned. "Are you lonely?"

"Don't get me wrong; the Continental staff is fantastic, but they're a little on the distant side."

"What about the Silver Mountain folks?"

"I don't play mahjong. Or gamble on rooster fights. Makes it hard to get conversations going with most of them." He stared at her for a second, an unreadable expression on his face. "Besides, at the rate you're going through them, there won't be anybody to talk to there before long."

Susan kept her face still. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm sure you don't." He jabbed a thumb towards the elevators. "So, breakfast?"

"Breakfast."

* * *

Once they'd been seated Elijah took the opportunity to watch Susan Rizzi for a moment as she flipped through the menu. One lock of brown hair hung down between her eyes and she absently brushed it back. She didn't look like somebody who'd waltzed into a nightclub and shot the owner, but appearances and all that. He cleared his throat gently. "Thank you."

Susan looked at him over the top of her menu. "For what?"

"The coins. You didn't need to do that."

"Oh, that." She shrugged. "I owed you for not contesting the contract. Plus aiming a gun at you."

He gave her a rueful grin. "Well that happens in this line of work."

"Yes, it does." Susan returned the grin. "I have to say though, when you said 'distraction' I didn't think you meant 'club-levelling melee.'"

Elijah winced. "It wasn't _that_ bad."

"Right, I'm sure it wasn't." She looked back down at her menu and a second later added, "You know I was finished and on my way out when people started clubbing each other with chunks of the bar."

"You- Damn, sister, you're scary efficient. And I was not responsible for that," he said. "And really, if you're going to make an entire bar out of ice you should do it thick enough to not break apart when a drunk guy collapses on it."

"Oh he just fell on it, did he?"

"There may have been a slight, uh, mechanical assistance from a fist."

"Yours?"

"Can neither confirm nor deny."

"Uh huh." Susan smiled. "Well, it worked. So I suppose I should be thanking you."

"You already did," he said, twirling a gold coin between his fingers.

"Services rendered and all that," she said, shrugging. "I'll say this: you know how to deliver one hell of a distraction. So, you mentioned waffles the other day?"

"I do believe so." Elijah sat up as Susan's face darkened suddenly. "What is it?"

"Nothing," she said, but stared past his shoulder towards the entrance of the dining room.

He shifted in his seat slightly so he could glance backwards. A towering hulk of a man in a white suit jacket had just entered. Cropped hair framed a face like a mountain ridge, craggy and weather-beaten. His eyes fell on their table, widened, and narrowed. Then he started their way.

"Oh great," Susan muttered, and sat back with a stony face.

The man stopped at their tableside and glared down at Susan. "Rizzi. You owe me, _puta_."

Susan smiled cheerfully. "Nice to see you too, Cuhuillo. How's Vargas treating you after Brazil?"

The big man's hand twitched violently. "I'm going to skin you alive and mount your head on a-"

"Not in here you're not. You know the rules."

Cuhuillo scowled and leaned in. "You can't hide in here. And the rules won't protect you forever."

"Do you mind?" Susan replied. "Your stench is ruining my appetite."

The scowl deepened, which Elijah hadn't thought possible. "Manuel Cuhuillo," he said. "Fancy seeing you here."

Cuhuillo turned his glare on him. "You. The _cobarde_. Don't interrupt."

"You're the one interrupting," Elijah said.

"And getting closer to drawing the ire of Management," Susan added. She nodded past him, where many of the dining room's occupants had abandoned their own conversations and now watched the confrontation with the air of those well acquainted with and expecting violence. "So I suggest you walk away," she said, smiling politely, "and go fornicate with yourself."

Cuhuillo grumbled, which sounded like two boulders grinding together within his chest. "Of course. Hiding again. We'll see how brave you are on the streets. We have unfinished business."

He spun on his heel and stomped away. Both the seated assassins watched him go before turning back to the table. "What a pleasant fellow," Elijah muttered.

"You know him," Susan said, eyes still scanning the room.

"We've met." He eyed her for a moment. "Evidently you have more history with him than I do."

Susan's face twisted in revulsion. "Ugh. It sounds like we were an item when you put it that way."

"I assume that's not the case."

"Definitely _not_ the case," she said.

"You mentioned Brazil. What happened?"

Susan looked at him for a moment, then shook her head. "It doesn't matter. Let's just say we didn't become friends from it."

"That seems to be putting it mildly. The Vargas cartel's top killer has a personal hate for you."

"He doesn't seem too fond of you either. What did he call you? The coward?"

"Ah, that. There was a… _thing_ in San Diego. The cartel was trafficking people through Silver Mountain territory. I was tasked to put a stop to it – or at least get them a piece of the action."

"What did you do?" she asked. He saw how Susan's face darkened at the mention of human trafficking. _Interesting._

"I tipped off Exodus Railroad," Elijah said.

"Exo-" Her eyes widened. "You're kidding. Aren't they a bunch of religious nutjobs?"

He leaned back, remembering some of the interactions he'd had. "I won't disagree with you there. But they're also surprisingly organized – and very well armed."

"I've heard the rumors," Susan said. "Didn't think there was really anything to them."

"They're truer than people think. And they really do hate slavers. When they heard about the cartel's actions it was like… a militia that came out of nowhere. They hit the trafficking house, cleaned it out. I really didn't need to do much: by the time Cuhuillo got to the scene all the slaves were gone."

"How'd he know about your involvement?"

"I was with the Exodus team that hit the cartel. I know they didn't talk. Honestly, I've always figured somebody in Silver Mountain leaked something." He thought back to Fortune Cloud Liu's reaction. "Some of them were unhappy there wasn't a deal cut to split the profits."

"Ah." Susan gave him a look he couldn't read. "And you just happen to have contacts among Exodus Railroad?"

"You sound surprised."

"A little bit, yeah. I didn't figure there'd be much… joint interest there, you know?"

"They have their uses," Elijah said carefully.

"Interesting." She kept glancing over his shoulder, distracted in a way he hadn't seen before.

"You really don't like that guy, do you?"

"I'm concerned about why he's here," Susan replied. "Like you said, he's the Vargas cartel's heavy hitter. If he's here, then Vargas is looking to move in on Manhattan."

"Does he not have much presence here?" Elijah asked.

Susan shook her head. "Viggo Tarasov kept them out for the most part. Now that he's gone, Vargas must see his chance."

Elijah felt the frown creasing his face. "I don't particularly like the sound of that, have to admit. Vargas has a taste for excessive cruelty."

"Like burning people alive in oil barrels? Cuhuillo's particularly fond of that one."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"No." Susan sighed. "As if things aren't crazy enough already."

"Are you going to be alright? Outside, I mean. He seems pretty intent on making something happen with-"

"You don't know me very well, so I'll say this once: that's not something you need concern yourself with."

"Understood." He eyed her for a moment, and decided that if it came down to it and Cuhuillo really wanted a showdown... Well, then he figured the Vargas cartel would be out its top killer – and he'd gladly spit on that bastard's grave.

"So, where were we?" Susan glanced down at her menu, then back up at him with what seemed like rather forced cheer. "You mentioned waffles?"


	5. Chapter 5

"This is a bad idea," Rizzi said.

"Did I ask you?" Marco Fabbro retorted. The underworld leader drummed his fingers across the tablet surface, setting off a blizzard of menus and confirmations that he grimaced down at for a moment before shoving the device aside. "It's not exactly robbing Fort Knox, huh? And you've already done something like this. Just hit the place, get out, everybody's happy. Well, minus the chinks, huh?"

She shook her head, picked the tablet up, and re-centered the map. "This is too public. You want- This is practically a drive-by."

"What? You gettin' picky?" Fabbro leaned towards her, a scowl etched into his face. "We're at war, doll. Shit happens."

" _This_ is the sort of shit that attracts law enforcement," she said. "And I didn't sign up for that."

Fabbro waved dismissively. "Look, that's handled. You're so worried, wear a mask. Besides, the cops are plenty busy these days. Lots of things going on all over the city these days, huh?"

"I still don't like it."

"You don't have to _like_ it; you just have to _do_ it." Fabbro sighed. "Look, I'm not tellin' you to do it alone. I'm sending my own guys as well. You got plenty of backup."

"That worked out spectacularly last time. Fine. I can make this work. It's still a bad idea."

"Only if you fail."

* * *

So Rizzi found herself in the back seat of one of Fabbro's black SUVs – did they give crime bosses package deals on these things? – next to Tony, as the car rumbled through Chinatown. Early afternoon, before the real torture of Manhattan traffic set in. Unfortunately, that also put them on one hell of a timetable. Getting caught in rush hour would be a death sentence, one of the reasons she disliked Fabbro's plan so much. Pulling something like this off in broad daylight – that was the stuff of cheap crime thrillers, not good calculation. Add that to the fact that they were trying to sneak their group in before a Silver Mountain convoy got there to take delivery… a bad combination all around. She gave another mental sigh as the car rounded a street corner. The neon signs and lights of nighttime were absent, exposing some of the dingy pallor of shops and restaurants trying to get by. "We're getting close," the driver said.

"Watch your fire," Rizzi said. "The less we shoot, the better. Clean and quick is best."

"We're here to clean the place out," said Tony, gesturing with a pearl-handled Nineteen-Eleven variant. "Why wouldn't we-"

Rizzi reached a hand over and shoved the pistol down. The car windows might have been tinted, but that didn't make it a good idea to wave a gun around. Discretion had its place. Sadly, that discretion undoubtedly wouldn't last long if he actually fired the weapon either; instead of a suppressor he'd mounted some monstrosity of a muzzle brake. The damn thing looked like some demented meat tenderizer. "Keep it tucked away until you need it," she said. "We don't want to make a scene too early."

The SUV turned down into an alleyway with several expensive sedans parked along the curbside. _This must be it._ She twisted to glance out the rear window at the second car before turning her attention back to the row of entrances lining the alley. Nondescript shops, like those carrying a dime a dozen oriental souvenirs, or herbal remedies, or dumpling shops. Nothing that should have drawn any attention – except for the cars. Those were the giveaway. The SUV came to a halt before one building front with darkened windows and a sign in Chinese that she didn't understand – their target. "Keep the engines running," said Rizzi. "This shouldn't take long." It was as much an admonition to the others as encouragement.

Rizzi stuck her electronic earpieces in, tugged the ski mask furled on her head all the way down, drew her pistol, and screwed the suppressor into place. She slipped out of the car and moved towards the doorway, holding her weapon low. Tony and four others dismounted and moved up behind her with their weapons drawn. Rizzi reached out and slammed the door open.

She rushed into the room and took a wide sidestep right to clear the doorway. "Don't move!" she yelled, scanning for threats and getting her first good look at the inside. The target must have been one of those eastern medicine places; rows of tables sat laden with all manner of dried herbs and sundry, less recognizable substances. A riotous array of sweet, bitter, and sour smells assaulted her nose even through the mask as a half-dozen workers stared at her in shock. The rest of Fabbro's men poured in through the door waving pistols and submachine guns. "Hands in the air," Rizzi said. "Step away from the tables – slowly." One of them gave the others a meaningful look, shook his head, and raised his hands.

And then Tony raised his pistol and shot the closest Silver Mountain man in the face. The boom of the forty-five filled the space as the man collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. The other Chinese reached for waistbands and desks – and all hell broke loose. Rizzi double-tapped one as he hauled a subcompact pistol out. The cacophony of gunfire was painful even through the earpieces. She grimaced; they'd turned the place into a damn abattoir, and Fabbro's shooters in a row struck her all too much like the death squads she'd had to deal with in Brazil. Unpleasant, to say the least. Unprofessional and sloppy. Too much collateral damage. _Damn it._ She'd been hoping to avoid this.

Keeping her weapon raised, Rizzi covered the room as Tony and another man went through a back doorway. A minute later swollen duffels came sliding through. Beyond the doorway she saw another table with money counting machines and stacks of cash sitting everywhere. "Grab it, let's move."

She turned and covered the alleyway outside as one of Fabbro's men ran the first bag out to the idling cars. Shouts echoed through the surrounding apartments – not as many panicked screams, but quite a few calls for response. This was Silver Mountain territory, after all. Rizzi moved to the car and popped the trunk hatch so the other team member could toss the bag of purloined cash in. Another one followed, then a third that went into the other car. A shot smacked into the concrete next to her, sending chips flying. She tucked behind the corner of the car, looking for the shooter. There, up in a window three stories up looking down into the alley. A rifle barrel emerged and she squeezed off one careful shot, grimacing as she did so. This was exactly what she didn't want to be doing, sending bullets into the surrounding buildings. The chances of bystanders getting caught in the fire were just too damn high.

"We're out of time!" Rizzi yelled. Another shot ripped through the metal frame of the car beside her. Fabbro's men returned fire with considerably less restraint than her. Glass and brick fragments rained onto the asphalt. "We need to leave!"

Tony thudded against the car next to her. He hurled a stubby cylinder back into the shop before yanking the door open and climbing aboard. Behind her the sinister _whoosh_ of an incendiary grenade hissed to life, audible even past the gunfire. _That_ wasn't part of the plan, but she had no time to say anything, merely piled into the car as the engine roared. Smoke began seeping out of the shop they'd raided.

The SUV lurched forward, accelerating towards the other end of the alley. Then another blocky SUV rounded the corner heading towards them – the Silver Mountain pickup. "Back!" Tony yelled as the driver braked hard. A crash sent a jolt through Rizzi's spine as their car behind slammed into them. Tony rolled the window down and beckoned them to reverse. From the passenger seat Rizzi rolled her own window down and stuck her arm and head out, sighting as best as she could as the vehicle began rolling backwards. She emptied her magazine into the approaching Silver Mountain car, aiming most of the rounds at the radiator grill and the engine block behind it. Her head thumped into the door frame as their car hit a bump – and then jerked further aside when a pair of bullet holes appeared in the windshield, sending a crazed web of cracks across the surface. Somebody in the back seat yelled in pain.

"Come on!" Tony said. "Go!" She couldn't tell if he was yelling at their driver or the car behind. Rizzi pulled her arm back in. She dumped the empty mag, slammed a full one in, and racked the slide. Three shots back at the Silver Mountain vehicle punched holes through their windshield but the movement of both cars made accurate fire nigh-impossible. As best she could tell she'd only managed to split the difference, drilling the space between driver and passenger sides. Sloppy, but enough to make the other car swerve and scrape along the brick and concrete building sides, widening the gap between them.

And then the close in buildings on either side gave way to wider cityscape as they roared out of the alley. The driver swung the wheel hard, jolting Rizzi forward and to the side. She brought her pistol around, other hand holding onto the overhead handle for dear life. In that ever so brief moment of stillness as the vehicle hung between rearwards momentum and launching forward she got her sight picture and pressed the trigger twice. The car lurched forward, thudding her elbow into window frame, and she pulled her arm back in. A rumbling crash came from the alley as the car's turn took it from her view. Barely cognizant of the fact that they were now racing down a wider city street, Rizzi pulled her knees up to her chest and swung around in the car seat so she faced rearward. Hugging the pistol to her chest in a low ready as she braced herself against the dashboard, she peeked out the window in anticipation of pursuit. The only car behind them was the second of Fabbro's team.

She watched, heart hammering in her chest, as they put another hundred meters between them and the alley. Still nothing. That last crash must have been the Silver Mountain car. Hands buzzing with adrenaline, Rizzi tumbled round again in the seat to face forward. She tugged the ski mask off, felt the bite of the wind on sweaty skin, and took several deep breaths.

"Yeah!" Tony slammed a fist into the car door. "Nice driving, Jimmy!"

Groans of pain came from the back seat; she looked to see the fourth in their car – Arturo, right, that was his name – clutching his shoulder. "How bad?" Rizzi said.

"It fuckin' hurts," Arturo said through clenched teeth, "but I'll live."

"Keep pressure on it. You guys got a kit onboard?"

"A what?" Tony asked.

Rizzi rolled her eyes. "A trauma kit."

"No, we don't got one."

"Good idea to have one around if you plan on getting in firefights." She scanned around as they raced down the streets, swerving around other cars as the volume of traffic started to swell like an incoming tide. No lights or sirens coming at them – which meant that either Fabbro had a lot more pull with the police department than she'd realized or the cops generally avoided that neighborhood. Or both.

And neither one meant the clash between the two groups was likely to de-escalate.

* * *

"Come on." Elijah Wu tugged the driver's door aside and tugged Chou Yu from the Silver Mountain car. The vehicle had almost cleared the alley mouth, but that last pair of shots from the escaping cars had just been enough to make Chou lose control and run it into the building corner. The thick black smoke boiling out from under the hood was a reflection of that coming from the burning shop.

"Eighth Tiger's not going to like this," Chou said, holding a hand to his right bicep. A thin streak of blood ran down his arm.

"We need to move. This'll bring attention. Can you walk?" Wu glanced back at the store, where two more Silver Mountain brothers were trying to get close with little success.

"Yes, yes." Chou nodded and backed away from the car wreck. "Eighth Tiger has an understanding with the police here, but we should not linger."

* * *

"Burning the place down wasn't the plan," Rizzi said.

Fabbro flipped through the bundled stack of bills. "That's where you're wrong, doll." He tossed the cash into the pile on the table before him. "If you got it all, then fine. If you couldn't, poof. Covering tracks, you know how it is."

"Burning down a neighborhood tends to do the opposite. People get real interested real fast."

"It's not like the whole block went up in smoke and ashes, doll. Give the fire guys some credit, huh? They're good at their jobs."

"They deal with thermite grenades a lot?"

"You'd be surprised." Fabbro looked at Edmondo. "Spread the word."

"What happened to covering tracks?" Rizzi said.

Edmondo smiled thinly. "An operation that leaves behind a great deal of forensic evidence is sloppy and embarrassing. A clean operation-"

"For certain definitions of 'clean.'"

"Indeed. A clean operation is a hallmark of efficiency and power. One ought to claim credit where credit is due, in the correct channels."

"This'll draw a response."

"That is also an intended effect," Edmondo said. "There is indication that the Silver Mountain have brought in one of their associates. With enough provocation, Mister Shun may utilize this individual recklessly."

"And that's where you come in," Fabbro added.

"I see." Rizzi tilted her head slightly. "And if your 'provocations' draw other attention?"

"I already told you, I got the cops handled. They're busy enough as it is. Anybody else, well, that's why you're on call, doll."

"So I am. I'd better get more ammo then."

"You do that." Fabbro's head came up. "Jimmy says that was some sweet shooting from you today."

She smirked. "Services rendered."

"Quality. I like that. Keep it up."

Tony was waiting for her in the foyer of Fabbro's penthouse once she left the large, opulent room. Susan practically felt the force of his gaze as he looked her up and down. "Hey, buy you a drink?"

"Maybe later," she said. _Like when the sun freezes over._

"Aw, come on. How long are you gonna keep blowing me off? And hey, we've been in _battle_ together."

"Uh huh." She kept moving as he paced her.

"One drink, babe. We'll see where it leads us – and I guarantee I will rock your world."

Susan burst out laughing as she entered the private elevator. "Does that line actually work on anybody?"

"Sure." He paused, leaning on the door. "Is it working on you?"

She shook her head and pushed him back gently. "Bye."

"You'll come around," Tony said as the elevator door slid shut. "They all do."

* * *

"How many?" Tiger Shun's face was an expressionless mask, but it felt like the temperature in the room had dropped to glacial levels.

"Two cars," said Chou quietly. His eyes flickered as his gaze sought out paintings and vases around the penthouse, anywhere but the man now pacing back and forth like a caged animal of his namesake.

"Two cars," Shun repeated. "Into the middle of one of our neighborhoods, right up to the entrance. And you couldn't stop them?"

"It was a bad spot," Wu said, gazing calmly back as Shun swung his glare to him like a searchlight. "They were already leaving when we got there."

"Impeccable timing," Xiao Ma said from the side. "Extraordinary fortune, if that's what it was. Or excellent knowledge."

"They knew," said Tiger Shun. He stopped pacing. "They knew what it was and where it was."

"And when the scheduled pickup was," Wu said. He saw the look Tiger Shun and Xiao Ma exchanged.

"Enough," Shun said. He looked at Chou. "Go. Make sure the western blocks are ready for anything."

Chou placed his fist into one open palm and gave a short bow. "It will be done." His sigh of relief nearly echoed through the room and he backpedaled quickly out of the room.

Shun shook his head after a moment and then looked at Wu. "Will you be ready to act?"

"I'm under contract."

"Ah." Shun smiled. "The true response of the modern _cike_. Very good, very good." His nod was a dismissal.

Elijah slipped from the room. The foyer was a circle with decorations and layout according to the principles of _feng shui_. Chou was already gone. He'd make it halfway across when the door behind opened.

"A moment of your time, Mister Wu?" He turned to see Xiao Ma shut the door with a gentle click.

"Of course."

She approached him, demure posture at odds with the direct gaze she ran over him. "You arrived swiftly at the possibility of subversive elements," she said in softly accented English.

"Traitors, you mean?"

Xiao Ma nodded once. "The thought does not discomfit you?"

"It tends to be a reality of life," Elijah said. "Frankly, I'm surprised Eighth Tiger didn't accuse me. I _am_ the outsider, right?"

She looked at him with… what was that? Sympathy? "There is a tale: in the era of the Warring States, a king of Zhou once gathered his ministers. He had grown convinced that the king of Qin had dispatched a merchant to Zhou as a spy. He did not know who, but he spoke long and sternly to his ministers to be on their guard against foreigners entering his domain. Of course the ministers bowed and agreed. What the king did not know was that the spy was already among them. The ruler of Qin had long ago turned one of Zhou's ministers."

"Alright..."

Xiao Ma gave him a cold smile. "The lesson, Mister Wu, is that the wise sovereign ought to ensure his own house is in order before looking abroad."

"An interesting analogy, considering that the Qin went on to conquer all of China."

"It is but a story," she said, "though its principle remains relevant."

"Fair enough. Was there anything else?"

"Perhaps." Xiao Ma looked him over again. "You are not unpleasant to my eyes."

 _Uh oh._ "Despite my mixed blood, is that it?"

"Or perhaps because of it." She flicked the tip of her tongue over her lips. "Would you join me for a drink tonight?"

Elijah hesitated. She was lovely, but… "You flatter me with the offer," he said after a moment.

Xiao Ma looked at him calmly. "But you're going to refuse."

"It's nothing personal. I try not to get involved with anybody signing my paycheck. Things get complicated."

"Who says I'm looking for complicated?" she replied. "You flatter yourself if you think I'm seeking something more than an exotic diversion."

"It's a tempting offer, but these things _always_ turn complicated."

"And why do you say that?"

"How about another story from the Warring States era?" Elijah said. He returned the impressed smile that Xiao Ma gave him. "Are you familiar with the tale of Nie Zheng?"

"A _cike_ of some renown from that period, if I remember. I must admit, you did not strike me as a historian, Mister Wu."

"He was recruited to kill the prime minister of the state of Han," Elijah continued. "Nie Zheng went to the man's office alone while he was surrounded by guards and killed him there. It's said that he killed thirty or forty armed guards before he was cornered. Upon realizing there was no escape, he cut his own face off, gouged out his eyes, and disemboweled himself – all so they couldn't identify his body and link him to his employer."

"A man of rare dedication."

"You know what else the tales say? That he refused any payment for the assassination. Nie Zheng's actions were because his employer had long treated him with kindness, with respect, like they were friends."

Xiao Ma ran the tip of her tongue over her lips again. "And what has this tale to do with us here?"

"The conventional interpretation is that Nie Zheng's loyalty knew no bounds."

"Few men disfigure themselves casually."

"One could also see it," said Elijah, "as his employer getting the deal of a lifetime. Exploiting an emotional connection to fantastic advantage."

"Is that how you see it, Mister Wu? Is there no room for genuine kindness or connection then?"

"Connections can be weaknesses – especially when it comes to relationships with employers."

"How professional of you," Xiao Ma said.

"Really, nothing personal." It only occurred to him then, that given her reputation, she might take offense anyways and do something about it.

Instead Xiao Ma nodded, the corners of her lips curling ever so slightly. "Hmm. What a shame. Very well then, Mister Wu. I wish you a good day." And with that she vanished back through the door.

Elijah stood there for another minute, turning things over in his mind. He wasn't sure if that had just been a test of some kind, or if he'd passed or failed.

* * *

The treadmill counter ticked over to the seventh kilometer and Elijah slowed his pace, breathing slow and evenly. The Continental's gym was a luxuriously extensive affair for a something located in the prime of Manhattan space. Expansive and well-equipped, half of it was devoted to the everyday exercise equipment: treadmills, bicycle machines, weights and resistance devices, everything state of the art. The other half was given over to a set of open sparring mats with striking bags and shields placed around the edges available for use. Smooth marble walls gave the whole place a Greco-Roman feel while the air-conditioning kept the temperature on the frosty side, like every gym he'd ever visited.

Elijah glanced again at the person on the treadmill two machines over. Susan Rizzi's pace matched his; she'd been at it even before he'd arrived at the gym. The late hour meant they were the only ones currently here but she hadn't said anything to him yet, just run along in silence. So he said nothing as well and finished his run.

By then she'd moved on to one of the striking bags. He took a moment to admire her form – both her explosive strikes to center mass and the way she filled out her dark exercise pants and shirt. Rizzi shot him a glance. "Enjoying the show?"

"Thinking you could use a more interactive target." He picked up one of the striking shields; the padded rectangular piece was about the size of his torso, with thick, sturdy straps around the sides and back. He stepped over onto the mat and faced her, hugging the thick shield to his chest.

Rizzi smirked. "You _want_ me to hit you?"

"The pad, not me." He returned the grin. "Unless it's too small a target."

"Let the record show you volunteered for this."

Elijah bent his knees slightly and dropped his weight, settling into a power stance for stability. Rizzi flicked her head, tossing an errant strand of hair from her face – and snapped a pair of palm strikes into the center of the pad. _She hits hard_ , he thought. _And looks good doing it._ He adjusted his stance slightly and tucked the pad tighter.

She put another pair of palm strikes into the pad. "So, how was your day?" she asked like they were having coffee.

"Nothing spectacular." He felt each blow reverberate through his body even through the pad. "Yours?"

"Could've been better." She took a deep breath and struck out again. "Some guys just don't know when to quit."

"About what?"

Rizzi sighed. "Drinks."

"Okay…"

"It's nothing, really." She hit the shield again, rocking him back. "But one job is not qualification for a date." Another punch. "Especially if you screw it up."

A sinking feeling settled into Elijah's gut. "Screwed up job? Today?"

"Yeah." Rizzi blew a breath out. "Stuff happens, but chucking an incendiary nade into a building next to an apartment is a stupid, reckless idea," she said, punctuating each last word with a strike.

"And then drove away in a pair of SUVs?" he asked.

She pulled her next blow short; it landed with little more force than a tap. "How the hell did you know about-" Her eyes widened. "That was you in the car chasing us?"

Elijah felt the grin split his face. He should be upset, really. She'd likely been shooting at him earlier. "And that was you in the car we were chasing?"

"Guilty as charged," she said after a moment. "I guess I didn't hit you in all that."

"Was that you shooting at the end of the alley mid-turn?"

"Also guilty."

"Winged our driver pretty good. That was an impressive shot."

"I was trying to aim for the head."

"Tough shot in a swinging car."

"Well, they don't pay us because it's easy, right?"

"True enough."

Susan straightened and stepped back. "Thanks for the workout. I'm, uh, glad you didn't take one back there."

"Likewise." Elijah lowered the pad. A jumble of responses went through his head in that moment but before he could say anything she turned and left the gym at a swift pace. Fair enough. What _did_ one say to somebody you'd been exchanging gunfire with earlier in the day? He shrugged, moved over to one of the freestanding striking bags, and started hammering away, hoping the physical activity would loosen up the shadowed tangle of his thoughts.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The feed from the security camera was grainy and choppy, but the three masked men storming into the apartment lobby were still unmistakable. The first fired a burst from his machine pistol into the security guard who went down out of frame. The second carried a canister and started dashing its contents around the lobby while the third guarded the doors. A handful of seconds later – six, according to the time display on the video – the man hurled the canister aside and pulled a lighter from his pocket. He hurled it onto the desk with a flick of his wrist and the three men ran from the lobby as quickly as they'd entered. The desk ignited with a ferocity that suggested the canister had been full of gasoline.

Edmondo reached over and froze the video. "It ends soon after, as you might expect. Fire and electronics make a poor combination."

"What happened to the place?" Rizzi asked.

"The fire department answered swiftly enough. An evacuation occurred, of course, but there was little other damage of consequence."

Marco Fabbro let out a noise that might have been part-growl, part-groan. The glower on his face hadn't eased since Rizzi had arrived in Bianco's VIP lounge.

"Well, little physical damage," Edmondo amended.

"It's a message," said Fabbro. "A show. Trying to make us look weak. I won't stand for it."

"Silver Mountain?" Rizzi crossed her arms, leaning back. "They could be returning the favor."

"That might make sense," Edmondo said. "But it doesn't appear to be the case." He held his tablet out for her to inspect; a picture of a license plate.

"What's this?"

"The vehicle used by the perpetrators. One of our people outside managed to photograph them as they were escaping." Edmondo swiped over to another picture, this one of a truck with garish flame-painted highlights. "Traffic cameras tracked them to Hell's Kitchen."

"The wonders of modern surveillance," Susan muttered.

"Indeed. And Hell's Kitchen-"

"Isn't Silver Mountain territory." She nodded once. "Could be an attempt to throw you off the trail."

"It could be," Edmondo said. "We'd like you to find out. Investigate, ask some questions, and-"

"Kill every last motherfucker involved," said Fabbro.

"Quietly." Edmondo shrugged as Fabbro turned his glare on him. "Either way, the relevant parties would receive the message. A… _loud_ response could just as easily be construed as a hasty, ineffective reaction."

Fabbro scoffed. "Fine. We'll do it your way – for now."

Edmondo nodded and turned back to Susan. "Miss Rizzi, you ought to be aware. There are whispers that another player is moving into Hell's Kitchen – the Vargas cartel. It would seem that they perceive new opportunities with Tarasov's passing."

"It wouldn't surprise me," Rizzi said. "I've already run into Cuhuillo. If he's here, they're serious about something."

"Any information you recover would be appreciated."

"And their heads," added Fabbro. "Bring me their heads."

"I'm _not_ interpreting that one literally," said Rizzi as she stood up.

"Take it however you want," said Fabbro. "Just get it done."

* * *

The old church was a monolith of stone and mortar, like something transplanted from the Middle Ages into the midst of modern Manhattan. The Cathedral of Saint Ordonius had a lovely set of stained glass windows along an entire side that illuminated the interior in a whirlwind of scintillating lights. A weathered sign outside offered spiritual guidance and counsel, but for those with the right connections the church also offered guidance of a less sanctified sort.

Susan made her way to an altar in one abandoned corner. Votive candles covered the surface. She lit three of them and placed them carefully around the edges. A small alms box stood next to the altar and she slid one gold coin in through the slot. It went in with a wooden clatter. Susan stepped over to a pew and sat down facing a confessional booth. She waited for several minutes before a little light inside the right booth blinked at her twice.

Moving to the other door she pulled it open and sat down on the short bench inside, shutting the booth with a click. A shadow moved in the other confined space – a man's silhouette that looked at her through the mesh screen separating them.

"What can I do for you, Susan Rizzi?"

"Alejandro." She nodded at him through the confessional screen. "Just looking for some information: a truck with a terrible paintjob." Susan held her phone up, the picture of the vehicle in question on the screen. "Last spotted here in Hell's Kitchen."

Alejandro hesitated. "This might be something you want to stay out of."

"Can't. Business. So don't bother trying to scare me off."

"It's for your own good," he said, but even as he did she heard the weary resignation in his voice. "You know who that truck belongs to? Newcomers looking to claw their way into this city."

"Who are they?"

"The Vargas cartel. They're-"

"Yeah, I've dealt with them before." Susan grimaced, feeling her stomach sink. So much for hoping Cuhuillo just happened to be here on vacation.

"Then you should know they're bad news. Viggo never liked them operating here, but now that he's gone it's all fair game."

"Well that was fast of them."

"Who knows? Maybe they were planning to do something like this even if Viggo was still around."

"Doesn't matter. Where do I find the truck?"

"Rizzi, come on!" His voice had dropped to a quiet hiss. "You know who they are and you're still asking me to rat them out?"

"Like I said, it's business."

"If they find out I'm the one who-"

"They won't." She peered squarely at the confessional screen. "It's me."

Alejandro stared back for another moment, then nodded. "Yeah, you're right. You always did have ice water in your veins."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"All right, look. The blocks closest to the docks? They've gone dark the last few days. The usual dealers and toughs are gone."

"I'm guessing they didn't just migrate to sunnier climes."

"Nobody's turned up yet, but you know the chances with Vargas involved."

"I suppose we should just be thankful they aren't leaving rows of crucified bodies around."

"Whoa there. Easy on the blasphemy while we're in a church, miss."

"Really?" Susan chuckled. "Pretty sure that's the least of God's issues with me."

"Hey, I'm just saying. A little respect couldn't hurt in the grand scheme of things, right?"

"Have you forgotten what we do? I doubt that'll balance the scales in any way. I don't bother God, and I really don't think he bothers with me."

"I wonder if you're wrong there."

"Have you been spending too much time at church, Alejandro?"

"Probably." He sighed. "It's a nice idea though. Redemption for anybody, no matter who they are or what they've done."

"It's a fairy tale," Susan said. "Love redeems? Yeah, nice idea." She stood in the little booth. "Thanks for the info. Take care of yourself. No one else will."

* * *

Hell's Kitchen had been steadily gentrifying over the last decades, but no amount of development ever got rid of the darker aspects of human nature – and all the ways it expressed itself. As she drew nearer to the docks Rizzi kept her eyes peeled for anything. Alejandro had been right, as usual. The streets had a certain lifeless, empty quality that shouldn't have been the case where she walked. The typical corners and alleyways lacked the usual presences: the small-time dealers, the hustlers and grifters, those who sold their bodies and those who exploited them, the street muscle who took on any unsavory job no questions asked.

Empty.

No, that wasn't quite the case. Rizzi tugged her hood a little tighter against the lazy drizzle coming down. It wasn't that the streets felt _empty_ , no. There were certainly the typical pedestrians and motor traffic on the move. It felt more like… that quiet tingle in the back of the mind, that warning sense upon entering setting foot in the wrong part of town. Like being a lone traveler on a road surrounded by men of ill intent, or a target beneath a rifle scope.

A tip from a chop shop had sent her towards an apartment close to the water's edge. The dreary concrete structure had a tired, almost sinister air to it. Not much good happened here, she was sure. The place likely rented out to transients and maybe the odd mariner who was just passing through. And parked right outside was one truck complete with garish paintjob. Well, speak of the devil. The rusty metal gate creaked like the wailing of the damned when she tugged it open.

No doorman – not that she'd been expecting one in a place like this. Dust coated much of the lobby; none of the residents lingered here for long. Rizzi checked the mailboxes but couldn't determine much other than that people kept theirs locked tight. She stalked the hallways instead, taking note of cracked and peeling paint along the walls and ceiling but securely barricaded doors. Knocking on one door at a time wasn't exactly efficient and the chances of discovery too great. Another way, then.

Rizzi headed back outside to the truck and peered inside, looking for any clue about the owners. Several scattered papers along the dashboard and floor – and a heap of pizza boxes shoved into a corner in the back. One of them had a name scrawled on it in big black letters. Bingo. She took note of the place and looked it up on her phone; some little joint several blocks away. A quick call resulted in a slightly bored-sounding man's voice on the other end.

"Hi," Rizzi said. "I need to make an order for Rico. Medium pepperoni. Delivery, that's right. The usual address should be…" She rattled off the number and street for the apartment building. "I'm sorry, I keep forgetting the exact number- Sixteen? Yes that should be it, thank you so much."

She finalized the details of the order and headed back into the lobby to wait. There was one bench that had seen better days but she decided against sitting on it – or getting too close on principle. The delivery took about ten minutes to arrive; a young man with an untidy shirt, a pizzeria cap, and a thermal bag. She met him halfway inside the lobby. "Is that the delivery for Rico?"

"Huh? Oh yeah."

"Great. I'll take it from here."

"It's a full service, ma'am. All the way to the door."

"Oh, I mean it to be a surprise." Susan smiled cheerfully at the delivery boy and held out a generous tip. His eyes widened, but he didn't ask any more questions and handed over the pizza box. "Thanks. Have a good day."

Holding the warm box before her, Rizzi set out for apartment number sixteen. She wasn't wearing anything with the Pizzeria's name on it, but with any luck that wouldn't matter too much once she got close enough. Of course, that was assuming number sixteen _was_ the place the truck occupants were at. If not… well, then somebody would get a free pizza. There were worse things in the world.

She knocked twice on door sixteen. A moment later a cautious, hostile voice responded. "What?"

"Pizza delivery from Luka's," she said, holding the box up to within sight of the peephole.

"I didn't order that."

Rizzi pretended to check her phone and called off the address. "That's this place."

"I said I didn't order it!"

Another voice came from inside. "Just take it. We're going to get one anyways."

"Fine." The door wrenched open a moment later. The man in the doorway had that slicked hair and plain but robust clothes characteristic of Vargas enforcers. He leered at her. "You're not the usual guy."

"Been out sick," Rizzi replied. He hadn't seemed to catch on to her lack of identifying clothes. "Say, are you the ones with the flame-pattern truck? The guys at the shop love that thing."

The man nodded. "Yeah, she's a real-" He paused, frowned. "Hey, I've never driven it to your pizza place."

Rizzi shrugged. "Woops."

She burst into motion. A straight punch into the man's throat and a following stomping kick hurled him back into the apartment. She followed him, keeping the distance closed, and kicked the door shut behind her. The little apartment held two more men inside, rising from a couch before a television. She flung the pizza box at the one on the left with a snap of a wrist while she drew her suppressed pistol with her other hand. Stepping to one side to use the man choking and gasping as cover Rizzi sighted in on the third one, who was drawing a pistol from his waistband. She double-tapped him in the chest and swept a leg through the first man's ankles, dropping him to the floor.

Shifting the pistol over, Rizzi shot the man who'd been flailing with the hot cheese and tomato sauce coating his chest. A quick stomp to the shoulder of the prone target at her feet stopped his own attempt to reach a weapon. She stepped further into the apartment and put a round into the head of each man she'd already shot. A quick scan revealed nobody else in the apartment and she stepped back to the groaning man. He went still at the sight of the black muzzle aimed between his eyes. "Fabbro sends his regards," Rizzi said, and pressed the trigger.

The whole thing had taken just seconds. She checked the rest of the apartment again for anybody else, then collected the dead men's phones. The devices sported fingerprint unlocking, so she methodically went around using their hands to unlock the phones and change the security settings. All the while Rizzi kept an ear out for any sign of commotion or response but nothing did. Either nobody had heard the commotion or things happened often enough here that the residents had learned to turn a tune to it out. She knew which one she'd bet on.

Slipping the pilfered devices into a pocket to bring back to Edmondo, Rizzi brought her own phone out and dialed one of her contacts. The other end rang twice before somebody answered. "This is Charlie's."

"This is Susan Rizzi," she said. "I'd like to make a dinner reservation for three, please."

* * *

Elijah Wu swayed aside from the knife thrust and lashed out with his sword, stabbing the blade through the cartel man's throat. As that one fell, gurgling wetly, Wu swung around with pistol in his other hand. He lined the sights up on the last cartel runner and put a trio of rounds into his chest. Chou stepped over and put a final bullet into the man.

Wu looked around at the scattered bodies around the dock before lowering his weapons. The fight had been brief but bloody; evidently the Vargas Cartel had not been expecting an attack on this quiet little dock. Even so the outmatched defenders had put up a decent fight. Silver Mountain fighters began smashing open shipping containers and ransacking the contents. Packets of drugs, crates of weapons, templates for all kinds of false identification. Somebody was preparing a long campaign. "Take the papers and guns," Wu said.

"And the product?" asked Chou.

"Dump it."

"But it's good product," another one of the Silver Mountain men said. "We could take it, sell it-"

"You know how Eighth Tiger feels about drugs," Chou said. "Obey the _cike._ Throw it in the river."

"The bodies too," said Wu, bending down to grab a leg. "Let's make this fast."

The sun was setting rapidly and by the time they finished the city had begun its transformation into the magical lightscape of nighttime. "Do you think the cartel will receive this message?" Chou said as the group left the docks.

"They'll receive _some_ kind of message," Wu said. "Exactly which message it is rather depends. I'm still not convinced starting a war against another group now is wise."

"I understand your concern. A nation at war across every point of its borders is one that knows no security. But there are times such things cannot be avoided. I understand you have encountered them out west?"

"We've crossed paths. I don't mind killing them, but Eighth Tiger should beware getting into more than he can handle. This thing with Fabbro is already trouble enough."

"Fabbro is weak," said Chou. "His men have grown soft under Tarasov's reign and forgotten what it is to struggle and fight. They are good only for bullying the weak. He is a paper tiger with no strength to back up his growl."

"Maybe." Wu thought of Rizzi then. In a confrontation between Chou and her, he knew he wouldn't bet on the Silver Mountain man walking away. "Don't be too sure of that."

* * *

The Continental speakeasy that night was packed. Not exactly surprising; turmoil tended to be good for business in their profession. Susan remembered the aftermath of the financial collapse, right when she'd started out. A profitable time, if one was in the business of solving problems a certain way. Some things didn't change. Fabbro's eyes had lit up like a kid in a candy store when she'd brought the Vargas men's phones back. She chuckled at the memory as she waited for a spot at the bar. That was one of the unspoken etiquette bits at the Continental. It was _classy_ , damn it, and that meant no jostling or crowding, no shouted drink orders and even fewer drunken brawls. Addy could handle the first issues, and drunken brawls tended to be over quickly when the participants committed professional murder for a living. If not, well, there was always Management.

"What'll it be?" Addy asked as Susan found an opening. None of the customary small talk, which meant she was swamped.

"You seem busy," Susan said. "Let's keep it simple: a Manhattan."

Addy smiled. "I appreciate it, really."

Susan waited on her drink, then wandered the speakeasy looking for a table. She'd just passed the man on stage doing Johnny Cash songs when someone grabbed her shoulder. She spun to see Cuhuillo glowering down at her.

"You killed Rico," he said quietly, leaning in.

"Who?"

"Don't play with me, _puta_. I know it was you."

"He shouldn't have attacked one of Fabbro's apartments. You know this business."

"He was a good man. I'm going to carve his name into your flesh while I break you."

"You couldn't beat me in Brazil. Take your best shot."

For a moment Susan thought Cuhuillo was going to do it right then and there as he leaned another inch closer, but then his scowl deepened and he stepped back. "I'll be seeing you."

She watched him stalk away, then released a breath.

"First van Haag, now Cuhuillo." She looked to her side to see Felix Kerranus at a small round table with a dusky-skinned, raven-haired woman who looked Susan over. "You make interesting enemies, Rizzi."

"It's a gift." Susan smiled and shook her head. "Who's your friend, Felix?"

"Maletha Vael." The woman lifted her mostly empty glass to Susan in a toast. "Felix speaks highly of your role in the Berlin job."

"He's too kind." She glanced over at Kerranus, who smiled and shrugged.

"Would you like the table?" he said. "I believe the portion of our evening here is about to conclude."

"Oh yes," Vael said with a wicked smile. "And what's to come is definitely unsuited for polite company."

"Sure." Susan grinned as the two stood and took their glasses. She lifted her own towards them. "Have fun, you two."

She sank down into one of the chairs and sighed, wondering briefly if it was just a one-night thing or something more. Not that it was any of her business, but…

Few people in their world formed anything resembling a lasting bond or relationship. And all too often those who did found that their ties were weaknesses, soft spots for an opponent to target. She shook her head. _What's gotten into_ you?

* * *

Drink in hand, Elijah walked through the Continental speakeasy enjoying the tunes of "The Man Comes Around." An old song, full of fire and brimstone and apocalyptic imagery. The singer couldn't quite replicate Johnny Cash's voice but then, who could? He caught sight of Susan Rizzi sitting alone at a little table. Their eyes met and after a moment she nodded at the empty seat across her.

Sliding into the seat, he gave her a smile that she returned distantly. "Is it always this busy here?" he said.

"It ebbs and flows," Susan said.

"I see." He tilted his head slightly; she seemed distracted, or perhaps dwelling on something else. "So here's a funny story. I passed Cuhuillo on the way in. He looked like somebody had murdered his puppy. You wouldn't know anything about that?"

Susan shrugged. "Turns out he has at least one friend. Or had."

"Uh huh. And did said friend just meet an unfortunate end?"

"I may or may not have had anything to do with it," she said. "And maybe Vargas should think twice about firebombing Fabbro's properties."

Elijah sat up. "Vargas is picking a fight with Fabbro too?"

Susan's gaze snapped over to him, sharp and businesslike suddenly. "Does that mean they're tangling with the Silver Mountain?"

"They've made moves," he said. "They must be looking to snap up as much of Manhattan as they can."

"Interesting." She took a sip of her drink. "I've got no love for those bastards. I'll stay out of your way on any job you've got involving them."

"Likewise," Elijah said.

They chatted a bit: weather, world events, food. Empty words on empty topics. Songs came and went. She still seemed distant all the while, distracted by something else. Probably not by anything directly in the speakeasy. Finally Elijah's curiosity got the better of him.

"Is something bothering you?" he asked.

She refocused on him. The difference felt uncanny, like the moment of aiming with a pistol when its front sight snapped into focus and everything fell in place. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "Just seems like something's on your mind. You want to talk about it?"

"No," Susan said quickly. Then, "Why do you care?"

"I'm not sure. Call it a tendency to dig when I shouldn't. If you don't want to talk about it, that's no problem." He grinned. "My therapist says I should talk about things more."

She snickered. "Your- Heh. People like us deal with issues by shooting them."

"If only."

"Yeah." She looked at him over her glass for a long moment, like she was running things through in her mind. Then she tilted her head. "Do you ever wonder about getting out?"

"Out?" Elijah shifted. "You mean…"

"Out of this life." She spread her hands. "Out of this world."

"I don't know." He shook his head. "I guess I've never really thought about it. Never had a- Never had a reason to."

"Hmm."

"And even if I did…" Elijah grinned ruefully. "I'm not sure what I'd do with myself on the outside." He tilted his head to match her. "Why? Have _you_ thought about life on the other side?"

"Sometimes," Susan admitted. "I've always wondered what it would be like to be a pastry chef, open a little shop."

"Interesting, if seemingly random." He looked her over. "Alright, I'll bite. Why that?"

Susan shrugged. "I guess it's like… I always felt like it's the opposite of what we do – or like a weird inversion of it."

"Okay, not tracking that one."

She leaned forward slightly. "Think about making the perfect pastry. It's a matter of planning and execution, tangling with any number of factors so you get everything just right. And then the end result gets devoured in a few bites, right? Over in an instant."

"Like a smooth contract," Elijah said, running it over in his head. "Alright, I could see that. I just always figured the opposite of what we do would be more along the lines of… saving lives instead of ending them."

"Ah." Susan leaned back. "I try not to think about that too much."

"Really? This is an odd career choice then, isn't it?"

"You could say that." Susan went very still, and he got the impression that he'd just prodded something sensitive.

Elijah looked her over for a long, silent moment. "It bothers you." He lifted his hands at the look she shot him. "Not that you need to go into it."

"Don't expect me to," Susan said. She drained the contents of her glass after a sigh and set it down on the table with a resounding thump.

Elijah took a sip of his own drink to hide his response. She hadn't looked this vulnerable while he was throwing her out a window. The lethally lovely woman actually looked unguarded – no. It wasn't her being unguarded. Somehow he'd hit something very heavily guarded, slipped in through some tiny gap in her defenses.

The gravelly-voiced performer plucked at his guitar and launched into a low-pitched rendition of "Solitary Man." Susan glanced over towards the stage, blue eyes flickering in the speakeasy's dim light. She brushed an errant strand of hair from her forehead. The disquiet still etched on her face bothered him more than he expected. _You don't owe her anything_. He found himself sliding his seat over around the table towards her, which drew her attention. _Just leave it. You might have to kill her._ He leaned in bringing their heads close so he could speak quietly in the lively bar. "The thing is, everybody in this life is screwed up if you think about it. For that matter, everyone's messed up in some way, period."

"That's probably true," she said, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath. "What's your point?"

"That-" He locked gazes with her – wary but not yet hostile, her eyes held a cautious curiosity. "Just that you're not alone."

"Loneliness is a choice," she half-breathed into his ear. At this distance he saw the thin, fine scar running diagonally across one side of her forehead, old and faded to near-invisibility.

And as the singer hit the crescendo of the song he found himself even closer, kissing the other assassin tentatively. Soft and war, she tasted faintly of the whisky from her drink. Susan stiffened at first, then responded, pressing in and-

The song ended in sudden, shocking silence. They sprang apart. He pushed his seat back, not meeting her eyes for a moment. When he did they were wide and intense. "Sorry," he said. "I don't know what-"

"No." Susan shook her head once. "It's fine. It was nothing."

"Right, yeah." Nothing. _It's nothing._

She looked down in seeming surprise. He followed her gaze to the subcompact pistol she clutched tightly in one hand. The muzzle pointed up at his chest. She stared down at the gun for a moment, and then slipped it away beneath the slit of her dress. "Sorry. You caught me by surprise."

"I didn't think I was that bad a kisser," Elijah said. He relaxed slightly as she grinned.

"Oh it wasn't bad. Just don't do it again."

"Yeah, sorry." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's late – or early, one of the two – and I should probably have eaten something first."

"Mm, food. _That_ sounds like a good idea."

"I'll grab some menus," he said, glad that she seemed just as willing to move on.

"No, wait." Susan shifted her seat back and glanced around the speakeasy. "Let's get out of here."

"Out?"

"It's New York. You know how much good food is to be found at this hour?"

"Not really. Haven't spent much time here, remember?"

"Right then." Susan stood up. "Come on. Let's get some pizza."

"Pizza? How very New York." Standing up himself, Elijah shrugged. "So where to? A little street corner somewhere?"

"Something like that." She motioned her head towards the exit, came around, and slipped her left arm through the crook of his right. It looked perfectly innocuous, but he noticed how it tied up his dominant hand while keeping hers free. "Alright, I guess I'm your guide tonight."

"Are you a New York native?"

She shrugged noncommittally. "Close enough."

Still arm-in-arm they headed for the exit. Navigating through the basement maze of hotel infrastructure, they slipped into the retro elevator. "So," Elijah said as it climbed towards the ground floor, "how do I know this isn't a ploy to get me off Continental grounds?"

"And put a bullet in your head?" Susan glanced over at him; her expression gave nothing away. "You don't. You'll just have to-"

"Trust you? You already pulled a gun on me."

"You breached my personal space," she said primly. "And no, I was going to say you'll just have to weigh that risk against the prospect of some really good late-night pizza."

"Ah. Well, when you put it that way, my expectations are greatly increased."

"For pizza - or a bullet?"

"Yes."

Susan grinned at him. "I'll try not to disappoint you."

At this hour there were far fewer porters on duty. They stole through the front lobby past the concierge's watchful eye. "Does he sleep?" Elijah wondered. "He always seems to be on duty whenever I pass through."

"Charon? I'm honestly not sure."

"It's impressive," he said. "Adds to the Continental's atmosphere."

"And probably more," Susan said. "Nobody gets to that kind of position in the Continental without being in deep. Charon's the one with contacts for anything business related."

"Special goods?"

"Special goods."

"So what now?" Elijah asked as they headed down the front steps. The New York night was cold and damp but did nothing to suppress the noise and chatter of the city's nightlife. "The subway? That's the proper tourist thing to do, right?"

"Also a good way to get caught in the crossfire of any disputes. The less time we spend together in public the better." She swung towards a gray car parked by the curb. "Get in."

* * *

The pizza place was practically a hole in the wall: a tiny doorway cramped in a brick façade. The one window revealed several people busy working dough despite the hour, and the line of people extending out the entrance testified to its necessity. Susan and Elijah swung into place at the rear of the line. Blaring indy rock from inside dueled with the chatter of the line.

Elijah leaned close. "Nice place. Reminds me of college towns."

"It is one," Susan said, looking around at the young faces gathered. "There are several schools near here."

"Ah. Well, a line is usually a good sign." He glanced over at her and grinned. "Oh to be young and foolish.

"Implying that we're old and wise?" The thought drew a brief grimace from her.

"Who? Us?" Elijah shook his head. "We're not exactly the old guard."

"Like Marcus? He's gone. So's Wick."

Elijah's eyes grew hard for a moment. "In this life, you're not old until some upstart tries offing you to make a name for themselves." Susan wondered at the depth of regret she glimpsed, but then the moment passed and the wry grin returned to his face. "And if we were truly wise, well, we wouldn't be in this line of business, would we?"

"You probably have a point," Susan said. She glanced over the line again, searching for threats but not finding any. At least, nothing of note.

Not counting Elijah, of course.

He was surveying the crowd as well when she looked back at him, his gaze drifting from person to person like a reader through lines on a page. "What? Something wrong?" he said.

"This is unwise."

"I'm off the clock."

"Is there actually such a thing in this life?"

"I'm not really sure," he admitted. "But you don't have a contract on you – or at least I don't have once for you. So there's nothing stopping some acquaintances from grabbing a late bite."

"Acquaintances?" She smiled at the term.

"I think 'coworkers' is a stretch."

"Yeah, I think you're right about that."

She paused at the lack of the other term that came to mind: friend. But that only made sense. Despite the patterns of the last few days she really didn't know this person, did she? But that was the nature of this life. How many people did she really know – more than the standard business contacts anyways? That was just the way things were; you kept others at an arm's length. Getting close meant getting vulnerable. And the people of the underworld – there were frequently reasons not to get close. She realized she was staring and glanced away.

"So what's good here?"

Susan smiled at the change of subject, relieved to not be dwelling too deep into her own thoughts again. "You can't go wrong with the Margherita."

"That sounds delightful." He looked at her for another moment. "May I ask you something?"

"You've already stuck your tongue down my throat," she said. "Why be a stranger now?"

"Hey. There was no tongue involved there."

"Think of the opportunity you missed."

"I feel like you would have actually shot me then."

"We'll never know." Susan gave him a little smile. "So what's your question?"

"How'd you end up working for Fabbro?"

"You want to talk business?"

"Well, we're not on Continental grounds, right? It's just… everything I've heard about Fabbro makes me wonder how he won your loyalty."

"Who says he _won_ anything?" Susan retorted. "He offered me a job and he pays the bills. That's all there is to it."

"But when I asked what it would take for you to walk away-"

"I said I'm under contract. That's all it was."

"Really? You're like that with all your clients?"

"Of course," Susan said. "And don't pretend you're not. People like us, our professional reputation is all we have. We live and die by our word. Assassins who don't honor their contracts tend not to get much repeat business."

"Or survive for long," Elijah noted.

"Minor detail."

"You could put it that way." He glanced at her. "I think you're somebody I'd want on my side, Rizzi."

She stared at him for a moment, the corners of her lips tugging upwards ever so slightly. "Likewise." She leaned in and lowered her voice. "But you realize I'm still probably going to kill you before this is all over."

"I know." He matched her stare. "We'll see who gets who in the end."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Several days later Rizzi sat down opposite Edmondo in a booth inside Bianco. The restaurant was mostly empty at this hour, but they sat apart from the customers regardless. A glass of wine stood on the table before Edmondo. He adjusted his glasses and held his tablet out towards her. "Does this man look familiar to you?"

"Can't say he does," Rizzi admitted after a moment. The man on the screen was what they called "very dead:" splayed out on a morgue table and staring lifelessly upwards. Then she frowned at the partially visible skull tattooed on his upper arm. "Is that-"

"A Vargas marking, yes." Edmondo switched the image to another corpse. "What about him?"

She had a harder time making out what remained of this one's face. Most of the right side was a mangled mess from a pistol round; she'd seen and inflicted enough gunshot wounds to recognize the work of a nine-millimeter hollow point. Susan supposed that ought to have set off some alarm bells about her life, but…

Well, _c'est la vie._

"Never seen him, but let me guess. Another Vargas man?"

"Yes."

"Why are you showing me these?" she asked. "What's this about?"

"A verification," said Edmondo. "These men were killed in the last few days. Mister Fabbro did not explicitly order their deaths, and while he does not mourn their passing, the affairs of the Vargas cartel are currently of interest. Did you commit these acts?"

Susan shook her head. "Wasn't my job. I haven't been taking contracts on the side, if that's what you're getting at."

"That isn't our concern here." Edmondo took a sip from his wineglass. "Have you any inkling of who might have done this?"

She thought back to the evening with Wu. "Believe it or not, I think Silver Mountain might be involved."

Edmondo sighed. "Mister Fabbro isn't going to like that."

"Why not? 'Enemy of my enemy' and all that, right?"

"I'm afraid Mister Fabbro holds a more confrontational stance towards the Silver Mountain."

"Oh god," said Susan. "Don't tell me it's personal."

Edmondo nodded.

"Because _that_ always ends well."

"Silver Mountain's involvement – how do you know this?"

"It-" Susan paused. "An overheard conversation."

"Where? The Continental?"

She nodded – and wondered why she was keeping quiet about Wu to her employers. He was competition, working for her employers' enemy. And yet…

"You know how the Continental is," she said. "No business on their grounds."

"We are aware," Edmondo said. "And while Mister Fabbro is not overly enamored of certain traditions among our compatriots, he does respect them."

"You don't sound so sure of that."

Edmondo sighed, adjusted his glasses, and took another sip of his wine – a sizable one. "Let's just say that I've had to convince Mister Fabbro of the… value of maintaining certain relationships more than once."

His admission sent a jolt of shock and fear through her. Had Fabbro really intended to violate the Continental's rules at some point? "It would be unwise to cross the-"

"Yes, it would." Edmondo shook his head. "And _I_ won't ask you to do so. You overheard something; good enough. Let's leave it at that for now."

"Sounds good to me."

"I don't suppose you also happened to _overhear_ why the Silver Mountain is in conflict with Vargas?"

Rizzi snorted softly. "Because it's Vargas?"

"That's… actually a good point. At least the Silver Mountain tends towards rationality in most of their decisions. Sometimes I think Vargas enjoys recruiting utter maniacs."

"Yeah. Susan leaned back in her seat. "It's almost like we live in a world of criminal organizations and contract killers."

"There's no need to be snide," said Edmondo, though a ghost of a smile passed across his face. "Such _is_ the reality of our life, no? My point is the Vargas cartel is dangerous in a way beyond the other groups. A serpent or a tiger is a predator, one that lives according to certain needs. Vargas is more akin to a rabid dog."

"I think they might actually take that as a compliment."

"And that should be cause for alarm. Vargas making moves within Manhattan sets a dangerous precedent. It's time for a certain amount of triage."

"A shift of priorities?" Rizzi said. "You plan to focus more on Vargas instead of the Silver Mountain."

"A temporary measure. We ought to strike them hard, before they grow further entrenched in the city. If Silver Mountain possesses any measure of solid sense, they'll certainly be doing the same."

"Right. So, who do you want me to kill?"

* * *

"Their distribution network." Eighth Tiger Shun sipped from the porcelain teacup and peered over the steam wafting from it at Elijah. "You understand the task before you?"

"It won't be easy," said Wu. "The feds have been trying for what, decades?"

"Feds?" Shun frowned for a moment. "Ah, you mean the American government." He waved a dismissive hand. "We do not mean to eradicate the scourge entirely. It is the nature of man that vices endure. Nor are we bound by their laws and approach. This is not about eliminating the distributors; this is about opening the eyes of Vargas to the reality of encroaching upon this city, upon our territory."

"Do _you_ understand what you're demanding?" Elijah asked. A part of him wondered at the wisdom of doing so as Shun's face darkened, his temper rising to the fore. "This is going to unleash chaos on the streets."

Another dismissive wave. "Acceptable. It may actually be beneficial to us."

Xiao Ma spoke up for the first time since he'd sat down at the round table, sliding a flash drive across towards Wu. "We have been tracking the pattern of drug trafficking in the city for some time now. The sources and supply are the most problematic, but the petty dealers and peddlers on the street are significantly more transparent. There's been a sharp increase of product in Hell's Kitchen."

"They're not wasting time," said Elijah.

"And neither should you," Shun said. "They are not yet rooted deeply. Distribution is still a weakness. Strike at it and they will have no choice but to respond – and expose themselves."

"So I'm bait."

"Is that a problem, Wu- _cike_?"

Elijah grinned. "It comes with the job."

* * *

"There's no specific target at this moment," Edmondo said. "This is… call it preparation. Information gathering."

"Alright," Susan said. "And what do you want me to do?"

"There have been indications that Vargas has managed to move a sizable shipment into the city. We must locate it."

"And you want me to do that?" she asked. "I'm more of a blunt instrument, Edmondo."

"You give yourself too little credit," he replied. "Besides, we're not asking you to singlehandedly destroy their stockpiles."

"They do know who I am," Rizzi said. "If you're looking for discrete subterfuge you-" She paused. "You're not looking for discrete subterfuge, are you? You _want_ me to kick the damn hornet's nest."

"Close," said Edmondo. "As I said, we aren't expecting you to dismantle the cartel's New York operations. But obfuscation and misdirection are powerful tools."

"Not really Fabbro's styles though, are they?"

He shrugged.

"So, you use me to draw their attention while your informants work behind the scenes."

"You understand, we wouldn't be able to directly support you. That would defeat the purpose, after all."

 _Not_ having to deal with Fabbro's bozos? Susan grinned. "It comes with the job."

* * *

By the time he killed the fourth drug dealer group of the day Wu thought he was starting to see some kind of pattern in what Vargas was doing. The intel and observations that the Silver Mountain had collected sent him ranging throughout the western half of Manhattan. The Vargas cartel was trying to spread its tendrils as far and wide as they could, getting its product out as fast as possible. They didn't seem picky about their distributors either; Wu had already killed in locations ranging from a leaking, rotting dump of an apartment to here, an upscale place in one of the nicer parts of Clinton.

He finished arranging the bodies: four of them with the stash of garish weapons they'd been keeping. Wu staged the scene to look like a quarrel among the group had escalated disastrously. It wouldn't hold up to any serious investigation, but it would do for the time being as the Silver Mountain pulled strings with the authorities. A pile of wrapped drugs sat on a table in the middle of the living room, ready to be separated into smaller packets for individual sale. He swept them into disarray. If it looked like they'd been fighting over their own product so much the better.

He thought of the shipment at the docks they'd destroyed. That obviously wasn't the only one if Vargas had moved this much in. So where else were they bringing shipments in? They could have been smuggling small batches in a bit at a time, but to flood the streets like they were doing… that implied a stockpile of some kind.

Wu flipped through the apartment quickly before reminding himself that he was overthinking his job again. And yet… he couldn't shake the feeling that there _was_ something here, some clue. Like the pack of matches sitting by the cigarettes on one table. The tobacco didn't stand out. The matches, on the other hand… He picked the little fold-over packet up. Worn, tattered, and water-logged. The cover had a logo from some shipping company; not something somebody who could afford an upscale apartment was likely to have anything to do with. The sheer incongruity of the little packet struck him enough that Wu tucked the matches into a pocket before heading to the door. He slipped a loop of nylon string around the thumbturn of the deadbolt.

Holding the other end carefully at the right height, Wu exited the apartment and shut the door. A swift tug flipped the thumbturn and locked the door from within, the loop sliding off and through the crack in the doorframe as he pulled. Down the hallway outside to the elevator, Wu moved purposefully but not too quickly. No reason to raise suspicions if he could help it. He waited for it to run up, then climbed in, hit the button, and rode it down to the ground floor. The doors slid open and-

Susan Rizzi waited on the other side. Her eyes widened in recognition. Then her arm lashed up, elbow leading the way in a strike towards his temple. Wu parried with an open palm, feeling the sting as her arm smacked into his hand. He rolled his fingers over to seek a control grip and seized her wrist with his other hand – only to let go in a hurry as her other arm came up over their locked ones, fist driving for his face. He ducked that blow, parried the second when she withdrew and launched an uppercut, then released her arm and shoved out, pushing her away.

Rizzi clasped her hands together behind his neck as she staggered backwards, dragging him out of the elevator. She drew herself close, the lock of her wrists pinching at his neck, and thrust her knee up. Wu turned a thigh, taking the impact on the meat of his leg. He let out a grunt; she kept hauling him back with her, not letting him get his footing. He reached up with both hands and hooked her elbows, plucking them out to the side to relieve the pressure at his neck. Two more knee strikes went into his leg with bruising impact – and then they both paused as footsteps came from the lobby. Somebody coming to investigate, or just somebody heading home.

Rizzi turned her head fractionally towards the sound, then swung him towards the corner besides the elevator, pushing him against the wall quickly but without slamming force. She pressed herself up against him – and kissed him hard.

The temptation to lose himself in that warmth surged up. The footsteps drew closer and he heard an amused grunt before they receded. Rizzi pulled back a moment later. Too bad the other person hadn't stuck around a little longer.

"Nice to see you," Wu said quietly.

Rizzi gave him a look of equal parts suspicion, exasperation, and… was that affection? "I'm not here for you."

"Really? Odd way to show that."

"You surprised me."

He realized they both had their pistols jammed into each other's ribs, up against mutual ballistic vests.

"Let me guess," she murmured. "I won't be questioning the dealers here anymore."

"Afraid not."

She blew out a quick exhalation of annoyance, still close enough that he felt the puff against his throat. "So much for that lead."

"What are you here for?" he asked.

Rizzi stared at him for a moment before answering. "One of my contacts pointed me this way. Couple of guys who hadn't really moved anything beyond party drugs before, suddenly offering hard stuff? Bit of a coincidence."

"You said question them."

"I don't care how Vargas distributes their product, I want-" She broke off, scowled at him. "You're the guy offing the dealers? I've been running around all day with nothing but bodies to show for it." She prodded him with the muzzle of her pistol. "It's getting annoying."

"Nothing personal," Wu said. "Just-"

"Business. I can imagine." Rizzi backed her pistol away, lowering it slightly. "Truce?"

"I'm not here for you either." He flipped his pistol on safe. "So what did you want to ask our dearly departed about?"

He saw the internal debate in her eyes, and then she tilted her head fractionally to the side. "The Vargas stockpile."

"Well, that's ambitious."

"Business," she said again. "Not my idea." Rizzi tucked her pistol away and stepped back from him. "And I'm wasting my time here."

As she turned to leave a sudden idea struck him. "Wait." He drew the packet of matches out, held it out to her.

"And this is?"

"Maybe a lead. It came from our friends upstairs."

Rizzi looked at him suspiciously for another moment, then reached out and took the pack, her fingertips brushing against his in the briefest contact. She glanced down at it. "A shipping company?"

"Not something you'd typically find in a yuppie apartment."

"Why give this to me?"

 _Good question,_ Wu thought. He rolled responses around his mind before answering. "It's not my job," he said. "But maybe it's yours."

"Professional courtesy again?" She smirked and took another step backwards. "That's going to get you killed one day, you know."

"Maybe."

Susan kept heading for the corner to the lobby, never turning her back to him. "See you around." She ducked around the wall with a swish of her coat.

Wu stared after her for a moment. He wasn't betraying the Silver Mountain; nobody wanted Vargas to get any more entrenched in the city. Let Rizzi do her own thing in this regard. All the same, he probably shouldn't tell Eighth Tiger about cooperating with the assassin on Fabbro's payroll. He shrugged and started moving.

* * *

"I just want to talk!" Rizzi sprinted down the street outside the office building. This branch of the Neptune Nautical Transport Corporation was a boring but functional cube of gray stone and red brick. The interior had shared that same drab mentality; dark beige carpeting, corporate posters and standard cubicles partitioning the inside space. She'd come looking for answers from the trail the matchbook had sent her on. This wasn't the first stop. She'd already learned that the matchbooks were standard fare on cargo ships, part of the array of entertainments afforded to those sailors who helped haul goods and products as part of international trade.

And the more illicit trades as well.

She'd come looking for Nathan Trenton; the man currently running away from her. Rizzi growled in irritation as she chased after him; just her luck that Trenton seemed to run marathons for fun or something. But then, she doubted his profession called for _quite_ as much cardio as hers. She redoubled her efforts and caught up, weaving in between other people on the street. Grabbing his arm she redirected him into a nearby alley underneath one of the ubiquitous construction scaffolds that littered the city.

"I just want to talk." She shoved Trenton up against the wall once they got far enough in away from passing eyes and ears. "We could have avoided all this."

"Please," said Trenton, panting for breath. He had a slender build that the cut of his business suit emphasized and an angular face. "I don't know anything."

 _What the hell was this: amateur hour?_ Rizzi shook her head. "Okay, Trenton. Let me say this up front. You are in way over your head here."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Now he had that wide-eyed, desperate look of a man caught in a lie.

Rizzi kept herself from rolling her eyes. This really _was_ amateur hour. "Your first mistake," she said, "was altering shipment manifests under your own login. Your second mistake was rabbiting as soon as I started asking about container transfers. Word of advice, running doesn't make you look innocent."

"No, no. I thought you-"

"You thought you got caught and tried to run. Actually, I take it back. Your first mistake was getting mixed up with the Vargas cartel."

Trenton turned pale at that. "You have to believe me. I didn't know it was them at first. It was just a side thing! A little extra cash, and my girlfriend thought it was so edgy and-"

"The containers," Rizzi broke in. "I know you divert shipping containers from Port Newark. At least some of them make their way up the Hudson into Manhattan. I want to know where."

"You- What?" Trenton stammered a moment. "I don't know anything about that!"

"Try again. You need to clear destination statements for the Port Authority."

Trenton winced at that. "But I don't know where they go after that."

"You know the initial destination. That's all I need from you."

"Please, they'll kill me if I-"

Rizzi drew her pistol and held it down by her side.

"Ohgodohgodohgodohgod." Trenton held his hands up and whimpered. "Please, please. I don't know anything, I swear!"

"Upriver," Rizzi said. "Where do you send the containers? I'm not going to ask you again." She raised the pistol up to chest height.

"West Fifty-Ninth Street! The Department of Sanitation! There's a private dock there. That's where they send the shipments. That's all I know, I swear!"

"There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Rizzi sighed. "You really shouldn't have gotten mixed up in all this."

"I told you everything I know! Please! Please don't!"

She raised the pistol. "Face the wall. It'll be easier this way."

Trenton groaned and for a moment she thought he'd refuse. Then he spun and practically flung himself against the wall, muttering platitudes and apologies to the world. She held the gun on him for a moment longer; drawing it out would be unnecessarily cruel.

Rizzi lowered the gun and stepped back silently, then left the alley swiftly and quietly before Trenton was any the wiser. She had a place to start. Fabbro may have sent her after the Vargas cartel as a distraction, but after Brazil she owed them a measure of bloodshed and death.

And she would pay it in full.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

So far, there was little of bloodshed or death.

The sanitation building jutted out into the river like a covered pier. Whoever had thought to bring things in here had made a smart choice; the location sat out of the way of a great deal of foot traffic but right underneath the freeway. A shipment could be delivered here, loaded aboard a truck, and moved surreptitiously throughout the city. And who would pay attention to the comings and goings of the Department of Sanitation? It was one of the great ironies of modern civilization that the skeleton of infrastructure which held it together could be so easily subverted for other purposes.

Rizzi watched from her car parked at a nearby pier, looking through a monocular scope. The sun had begun its final descent behind the towers of New Jersey to the west, the orange glow of the sky giving way to gray darkness even as the lights of the metropolis started taking over. Of course, there was every chance she was wasting her time here. There was no guarantee that any shipments were on the way here, or that Vargas hadn't used this site once and written it off, or any of a range of other potential factors. So far all the activity at the building _seemed_ legitimate, including workers headed for transit stops or driving away at the end of a workday.

She kept watch for a while longer, looking for any sign of activity after-hours. The temperature fell until the car windows fogged up from the heat of her body. The building stayed dark and lifeless. No ships pulling up, no trucks, cars, or even people leaving. Finally she stated the car and drove away; she would pass on what she'd learned to Fabbro and let him devote the resources to watch it. Rizzi suppressed a sigh as she drove down the lit city streets. It wasn't failure, she told herself.

But it still felt like it.

And that bothered her more than she cared to admit. It wasn't that she hadn't directly discovered anything, if she was being honest with herself. It was the expectation of action denied. Of the rush and adrenaline, the pounding beat of her heart and the taming of a firearm's recoil in her hands. Of not experiencing that thrill.

Susan blew a long breath out as she turned a street corner, weaving through the ever-present traffic. "You've got issues," she muttered to herself.

* * *

The Jericho bucked in Wu's hands as he pressed the trigger twice, sending two rounds into the drug dealer's chest. He felt the pistol lock open; that had been the last of his magazine. The man fell back through the doorway at the end of the hall and Wu advanced up the right side, ducking into an open door partway up. He regretted that decision immediately when a wild-eyed man inside rushed at him with a fire axe.

Screaming incoherently, the man swung the axe in a downward arc with enough force to shatter a chunk of the floor. His eyes twitched wildly as he tugged the axe out and swept it across horizontally at chest height. Wu stepped back out of range, then lunged forward and closed the distance. He slapped the axe haft near the head to further unbalance the man's swing and slugged him in the face with his pistol butt. The man didn't even seem to feel it.

He swung the axe again, this time embedding it in the dingy wall when Wu dodged aside. He followed up with a fist that rammed into the concrete wall and left his hand a mangled ruin. Again, no reaction but incoherent rage. The man must have been on something. Wu reached for his belt. With a forward stomping kick he drove the man back a meter, just long enough to buy time.

Wu hit the magazine release on his pistol, his other hand already coming up with a full magazine. He slammed it into the weapon's grip as the empty magazine slid out and ripped the slide back to chamber a round. Pushing the weapon forward Wu shot the man twice in the chest, then shifted his aim upwards and put two more rounds into his head to be sure. The man collapsed, head a blown-out mess, and Wu slumped back against the wall for a second. This was the second floor he'd had to clear practically room by room; the Silver Mountain's intel had indicated that this slum apartment in Brooklyn was a hotbed of drug-related activity, but this was ridiculous.

A shout from the hallway outside drew his attention back. A quick peek outside revealed another man in the doorway at the end of the hallway with a pump-action shotgun in his hands. Wu ducked back as the man sent a load of buckshot down the hall, concrete chips flying from the blast impacts. Another blast followed, echoing in the confines of the hall.

Wu leaned out, pistol leading the way, and put a trio of rounds into the shotgunner. The man stood in the center of the doorway, facing squarely into the hallway. Bad idea. He took the three rounds to the chest, staggered back, and dropped as another round creased his face. Wu charged down the hallway, cursing. That last round hadn't quite been on target.

The fallen man was struggling to bring the shotgun up as Wu burst through the doorway. He slapped the muzzle aside, used the momentum to tear the shotgun from the man's hands. Flipping it around, Wu caught its pistol grip in his left hand. He holstered his pistol, racked the shotgun pump, and shot the prone man in the head again. He pumped the shotgun several more times, emptying its tubular magazine of any remaining shells, and tossed it aside.

A quick sweep of the apartment confirmed there was nobody left alive in it. Wu slumped against a wall for a moment, breathing heavily. Tightly wrapped packets of drugs sat on the low table in the middle of the living room, neat and tidy in contrast to the furniture, the floor, and everything else in the dingy place. He considered burning the drugs for a moment, but starting a fire in the middle of an apartment building was irresponsible in multiple ways. Instead he slit the packets open, dumped them into the sink in the kitchen space, and turned the faucet on. Then he left, moving quickly.

Wu practically sprinted down the stairs and to the lobby. He was gone from the apartment within moments; he'd already spent longer than he'd wanted here. According to Silver Mountain's intel this slum project was one that law enforcement tended to avoid, deeming it more trouble than it was worth, but that didn't mean he should press his luck. He ran to his car, parked a block away out of sight, and drove off.

He stopped in a parking lot before reaching the Brooklyn Bridge and switched the license plates out for another one from the provided sets that had come with the rental. Resuming the journey back to Manhattan and the Continental, Wu sighed in exhaustion. It was partly a physical thing, he knew. He'd spent most of the day traveling around the metropolis murdering people – and his body made him quite aware of the strain. But it was more than that. The day's activities made him feel… _unclean_ somehow, as if the day had been spent reveling in bloodshed for its own sake. That wasn't his preference. It wasn't _professional_.

But maybe it was just his world.

* * *

Once he'd returned to the Continental Wu realized he wanted some company. That really only meant one place: the speakeasy. He showered and changed, headed down through the underground labyrinth to the black door. Only once he was inside, wandering the art deco space, did Elijah realize that he wanted some _specific_ company.

The tattooed, statuesque bartender –Addy, if he remembered her name – gave him a smile as he moved up to the bar. "Hey there, handsome. What can I get you?"

Elijah felt certain her flirting didn't mean anything; he'd seen her generally friendly with everybody in the bar. And while that might have seemed out of place in an establishment catering to hardened criminals, it actually felt rather fitting with the standard of service he'd experienced in everything at the Continental. "Just a tonic water for now," he said.

Addy smirked ever so slightly. "Waiting to drink with somebody else?"

"Just giving my liver a break," he said, grinning tiredly.

"Ah." She half-turned, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder at the array of bottles behind the bar. "I can dress up the tonic if you'd like something more interesting. Little bit of ginger syrup?"

"Sure." Elijah watched her mix up the components and top off an iced glass. He accepted it with a nod of thanks when she placed it delicately before him. "I don't suppose you've seen Rizzi around?"

The smirk blossomed into a full smile. "So that's who you're waiting for."

"It's not what you're thinking," he said quickly.

"And what am I thinking?" Addy replied.

Elijah opened his mouth, paused. He took a quick sip as Addy's smile grew. The heat of the ginger surprised him but also gave him time to respond. "Whatever it is, that's not it."

"Sure." Addy's smile faded slightly and she tilted her head. "Sorry to disappoint, but I haven't seen Susan today. I'll let her know you're looking if I do?"

"I'd appreciate that," Elijah said.

"Sure," she said again, but this time without the teasing edge. Addy glanced around at the bar, as if she was checking on whether any customers needed her attention, then turned back to Elijah. "You're not a regular here. Do you know her from elsewhere?"

He shook his head. "Not until this trip."

"Hmm." She tilted her head again. "That's a little surprising."

"Oh?" Elijah straightened, his interest piqued. "Why's that?"

"I've seen the way she talks to you. Susan doesn't usually open up like that."

"She doesn't?"

Addy shook her head. "She doesn't really get close to people."

"I didn't know that," Elijah said.

"Well, you seem to be the exception." Addy's gaze flickered away as somebody moved up to the other end of the bar. "Please excuse me."

Elijah nodded while the Continental's bartender went about her business. He shouldn't take anything from her words, he knew.

But making another circuit through the speakeasy, he couldn't deny the sudden warm glow in his chest.

* * *

Rizzi suffered through Tony's customary patdown before proceeding past the foyer of Fabbro's penthouse. She swept through the doors – and drew up to a halt when she saw he had company. It wasn't just Edmondo this time. Fabbro looked up from the spread of documents lying across his table, toying idly with the pin in his shirt. "You're late, huh?" he said.

"I wasn't aware there was a schedule for this."

Fabbro's other guest stood from where he'd been seated next to the mob boss and came around the table towards her. "Well, hello there."

"Rizzi, this is my cousin Julius," said Fabbro. "Just got in from Sicily."

"Julius Tracitus," the man said as he reached out with both hands and took hold of one of Susan's. He brought her knuckles to his lips and she fought back her initial urge; it'd be bad form to slug the boss's relative. A closer look revealed the familial resemblance. He shared the same blunt handsomeness that Fabbro possessed: tall, well-built. His face looked like it should have been chiseled from granite – with a key exception. The set of his mouth spoiled it; a cruel slash that split his face like a scar and brought a cold light to his eyes. "And you are?" he inquired, looking Susan over head-to-toe with no little interest.

"A professional," she said, willing him to drop it.

"Susan Rizzi. She's a contractor," Fabbro put in.

"Contractor?" Tracitus looked her over again, gze not quite openly lecherous. "And what is it that you're contracted to do, my dear?"

"Not like that," Fabbro said before she could respond. "She's a troubleshooter."

"A what now?"

Fabbro sighed and shifted one of the documents on the table. "A trouble _shooter_ , huh?"

"Oh, I see," said Tracitus. "One of the _sicari_ , are you? How fantastic." His gaze flickered to Fabbro momentarily. "Where did you find one so lovely, cousin?"

Rizzi kept herself from rolling her eyes. "He pays me," she said, then turned back to Fabbro. "If you're busy, I'll return another time."

"No, no." Fabbro waved her towards a seat. "Julius is family, huh? Anything you have to say to me can be said before him."

Not the way she'd have done things, but so be it. She sat down and laid out her findings, more to Edmondo than anybody else as he took a series of rapid notes. Tracitus looked bored by it all while Fabbro's expression resembled that of a wolf stalking its prey.

"And you saw nothing else?" he asked when she'd finished.

"No."

Fabbro frowned, but then shrugged dismissively after a moment. "It'd be a hell of a coincidence if you did." He looked over to Edmondo. "Put a crew on it."

"Eyes only?" the advisor said.

"For now." Fabbro looked back at Susan. "You should get some rest, doll. You'll be busy once we find out where they're storing their goodies."

"You know where to find me," said Susan, pushing the chair back as she rose to her feet.

"Yeah, we do." Fabbro gave her another dismissive wave and she headed for the exit, not keen to spend any more time beneath Tracitus' leering eye.

As she left she heard Tracitus say, "Marco, you never told me you had such lovelies at your beck and call."

The closing door cut off Fabbro's reply. Back in the foyer, Susan released a slow breath and willed her skin to stop crawling.

Tony waited outside, toying with a rocks glass. "You look like you need a drink."

And her skin resumed crawling. "No thanks," she replied.

"Come on," said Tony. "Just one? You won't regret it."

Susan smiled at him. It wasn't a smile of friendliness or even politeness. It was a smile like the one she'd given to the man who'd killed her father when she found him.

Tony stepped back, holding one hand up. "Alright, alright. You really don't know what you're missing though."

Susan walked towards the elevator. "Not gonna happen," she called over her shoulder. It was more than her visceral dislike of the man; accepting any kind of drink from him seemed the epitome of _unwise._

Leaving Fabbro's penthouse, she made her way back to the Continental. Susan stayed alert the whole journey; with everything going on there was every chance that somebody would try to remove her from the equation. And there was Cuhuillo. The Vargas killer had already borne her a grudge before he'd shown up in New York. Now…

Now there was no way they both left the city alive.

Well, that might be the optimistic view, she admitted to herself. Even if she survived a fight with Cuhuillo, the current clusterfuck of ambitious mobsters looking to fill the void left by Viggo Tarasov didn't bode well for the life expectancy of anybody immersed in their world. If not Cuhuillo, then the one who killed her would probably be some other professional like Kerranus or Dumont or Marx.

Or Wu.

The lights of the city at night passed in a blur as Susan revved the engine and hurtled down the streets. No other city in the world truly felt exactly like New York, and darkness only brought out even more of that flavor. Everybody died. This city was as spectacular a place to do so as any other.

 _Where's this melancholy from now?_ Susan shook off the thoughts and shifted gears, weaving adeptly around a slower car. She had no room for such things. _Focus on the job._

Anything else would get her killed.

* * *

The next morning Susan knocked on the door across the hall and waited for Elijah to answer. Breakfast had become a ritual between them, a game of sorts to see who reached the other first. The fact that he tended to get there first irritated her; she wasn't by nature a morning person. The door swung open. "Hey," he said.

Susan nodded at him. "Ready?"

"Sure."

She grinned at how loose his tie hung from his collar. "You look like you're wearing a noose."

"It's comfortable this way," Elijah said as they walked to the elevator. "I didn't know people here minded. Is it an East Coast thing?"

"No, no. I'm sure there're people everywhere who do it. It's- Never mind." Still, she kept glancing at the gray length of silk hanging down his chest. It really _did_ look like a noose.

The elevator arrived and they climbed in. Elijah pulled the lattice gate shut while she hit the button for the ground floor. He turned back as the elevator descended – and on a sudden impulse Susan reached out and took hold of his tie. She tightened it up and began adjusting its fit while Elijah looked quizzically at her, then froze and stepped back – or tried to in the confines of the elevator.

"That really bugged you, didn't it?" Elijah asked with a wry smile.

"I didn't think so," said Susan. "Sorry, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable."

She reached out for his collar again. Elijah snatched her hand halfway there, making her start. He was _fast._ "It's fine," he said. "This is fine."

Susan nodded. "Sorry," she said again, her voice a whisper. The warmth and pressure of his hand around hers felt like a singularity to her senses, pulling her attention to the contact. She swallowed and felt her fingers twitch in his. It certainly hadn't felt like this when they were exchanging blows.

He released her hand. "Sorry, I'm a little jumpy about-"

"No, yeah." Susan nodded again swiftly. "Hands to the throat. Occupational hazard. I get it."

Elijah returned the nod as he finished adjusting the tie. "Right," he said, taking a half-step back himself.

It struck Susan that there was more to it than that – something personal. She found herself wondering about what it might be, almost against her will.

How very vexing.

The elevator halted smoothly at the ground floor. Elijah tugged the gate open. "After you," he said, standing to the side.

Susan strode out into the brightly lit corridor, feeling a smile tug at the corners of her lips as she started towards the dining room. "Thank you."

* * *

As Elijah passed the butter he said, "What's happening with Vargas?"

"What do you mean?" Susan said.

"Did you find what you were looking for? From the dealers or whatever?"

"Close enough." She frowned. "Not sure if we should be discussing this."

"Ah, business talk." He tilted his head. "I didn't know Manage was that strict about it."

Susan paused. "It's not… _technically_ that strict."

"Oh?"

"Well, most guests probably aren't in the same situation we are."

"And what situation is that, exactly?" Elijah asked over his porcelain cup of coffee.

 _Hell if I know._ Susan toyed with her own cup for a moment, let the aroma of the coffee distract her. "Breakfast," she said finally.

"Ah, of course. That's what I thought."

Susan stared at him, trying to read his body language. What she saw surprised her. Though the expression on his face had that relaxed look of almost irreverence she'd come to associate with when he teased her about something, the tension in his body and the set of his shoulders implied something else. She searched harder. Relief, mingled with… disappointment? Over what? Her answer? Their… whatever the hell this was?

And what _were_ they, really? His question had been fair. By rights they should have been enemies if only by virtue of employers – a state of affairs all too common in their world. Yet here they were sharing breakfast, not for the first time, like friends. Was that it? Were they friends? _How the hell do I know,_ thought Susan. She wasn't an expert on the matter; hers was a life of contacts and networks, of people who were useful and those she was useful to. But _friends_ – that was a rare thing in this world. Not that she felt an aversion to the prospect – and certainly not with him. She enjoyed his company and conversation, and the way he seemed genuinely engaged during those times. Of course, it helped that he didn't seem to bear her any ill will from their encounters in the field. If anything, it seemed the opposite. And on an annoyingly superficial level, well, he was quite the looker, damn it. A girl could appreciate that.

She realized that Elijah had begun staring back at her, a curious look on his face. "Something wrong?" he asked.

"No," she said quickly. "No matter."

Elijah nodded; he didn't look entirely convinced as the curiosity still lingered on his face. "You know, I wouldn't have thought our situation would be that rare."

"What do you mean?" she said, feeling her heart skip a beat. Was he about to-

"Contractors at the Continental. We can't be the first who've ever stayed here working for competing interests."

She smiled bitterly at the wording; such _clean_ terms their world had appropriated for such ugly things. "Probably not," she agreed. _Where is he going with this?_

"So we're probably not the first to share meals here either, no? You can only glare angrily at a hostile coworker for so long. At some point you either leave – and remove yourself from neutral ground – or you say 'nothing personal' and at least have a conversation partner for mealtime."

Oh. So that was what it felt like: that mixture of relief and disappointment. _Why?_ "There's another option," she said, cutting off _that_ particular line of introspection. "It's called room service."

"Well that's boring. Don't get me wrong; the rooms here are certainly nice, but taking all your meals in there would be no fun."

"Fun?" she echoed. "It's not a vacation."

"Well, sure," Elijah said. He waved a hand at the dining room around them. "But it's neutral ground here. Might as well take advantage of that, right?"

"If you say so."

He stared at her for a moment. "You really don't care for getting close, huh? Addy was right."

"Addy said- Has she been gossiping about me?"

"I've seen you two talking. You seem to know each other."

"Addy's a…" Susan hesitated at the word.

"Friend?" Elijah suggested.

"Close enough," she admitted. "As for getting close; attachments are dangerous. You know that."

"In this life? What isn't?"

"Not much. So you minimize risk everywhere you can."

"Not much of a way to live."

"And what does that mean?" Susan said. "You got a wife and kids stashed somewhere?"

He chuckled ruefully. "It means we're not so different in practice."

Now it was her turn to stare at him for a moment. "Not exactly big on attachments yourself, are you?"

"Not… exactly, no." He took a sip of coffee. "You're right – it's not easy in this life."

"Then why the spiel about having attachments?"

He sighed. "Honestly? I'm not sure."

"I don't believe that," she said, crossing her arms. "You brought it up. You must have thought about it before."

"Well, maybe it's projection." Elijah set the cup down. "Something I want but can't have."

"Who says you can't have it?" Susan said. "My point was just that it's a bad idea."

"I suppose you're right."

"So we make do," she continued. "You get along without it.

"Or just enjoy the moments you do have," he said. "If that's all we get, make the most of it?"

"Maybe," Susan said, suddenly wanting to change the topic to something else. "Doesn't do anyone any good to dwell on it."

"Fair enough." He sat back and grinned. "You know, whenever we're done here, I'm going to miss our conversations."

Susan returned the grin and lifted her cup in a toast. "Well, here's to things you don't get to have."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Susan's mood dampened when she arrived at Bianco to find Julius Tracitus lounging in the VIP room. The oily smile he gave her made her wish she'd snuck a weapon past security. Tracitus had been an irritant since the day he'd arrived. Whatever business affairs he was here to conduct, she hoped that they'd be over soon so he could go back to Italy. She did her best to ignore his attentions in the meantime, but the man seemed to have some kind of sixth sense for when she'd be around. It was fine, she told herself. She'd experienced worse on more than one job.

"Hey, beautiful." Tracitus waved at her. "Here to join me?"

But then again, she'd gotten to shoot or stab the ones on the other jobs. She doubted she'd get to do the same to Fabbro's cousin. And that meant being professional, as much as she'd like to introduce his nuts to her knee. "Maybe later," Rizzi said, forcing her irritation aside. She swept past him towards where Fabbro and Edmondo sat at another table, conversing quietly.

Fabbro waved her to a chair. "Take a look at this," he said, motioning to Edmondo. The spectacled man held out his tablet towards Rizzi.

"The sanitation building," she said, taking in the image on the screen.

"Finally paid off," Fabbro said with a smirk.

Susan refrained from pointing out that they'd set her on that particular job as a distraction for what was supposed to be the real information gathering crew. "What have you got?" she asked instead.

"I've had my boys watching the place for days now, huh? Well they caught sight of a boat bringing stuff in."

"And?" A pulse of eagerness flooded Rizzi's spine; waiting around suffering the attentions of Tracitus had been enough to get her itching for _something_ to happen, just as long as it meant getting away from him.

"As you surmised," said Edmondo, "a truck arrived and departed, no doubt conveying the waterborne contents elsewhere."

"You have a location?"

Edmondo hesitated and Susan saw Fabbro's sudden glower. "Not exactly. The truck was tailed to this vicinity, but the crew lost track of it when they came across some Silver Mountain people moving through."

"I'll be having words with them about that," Fabbro said.

Susan examined the map Edmondo had brought up. "That makes some sense: this area is mostly warehouses and old industrial buildings. They could have kept moving, though. Just passed through to somewhere else."

"The cameras," Fabbro replied, shaking his head. "The truck doesn't show up again on the traffic cameras, huh?"

"So they're in there somewhere."

"Yeah, somewhere," he said sourly.

"You mentioned they ran into Silver Mountain." A sudden thought came to her. "Where did that happen?"

Edmondo's finger jabbed down towards the screen. "Here. They clashed down the length of this block, then disengaged here."

Susan tapped a finger against her lips. "I have an idea. To try to find out more, anyways."

"Another overheard conversation?"

"Something like that."

"What's this about?" Fabbro asked.

"Continental affairs," Susan said, unwilling to voice more than that. _Strange_ , she thought again. By all the codes of the underworld she owed Wu nothing, yet here she was protecting him from her employers.

Fabbro's scowl grew deeper. "You have a source of intel in there?"

"Not in the way you're thinking about."

"What does that mean?" he demanded.

"It means it's a Continental affair," she said. "You know the rules.

"Yes," he sighed. "The rules. So I get nothing, huh? Not even a hint?"

Susan shook her head.

"What a tease," Tracitus said, sliding to the table beside her.

She spared him no more than a glance before turning back to Fabbro. "I'll look into it – on my terms."

"Fine." Fabbro rolled his eyes. "Just lemme know, doll: Is this gonna involve bullets?"

"Not quite," Susan said, feeling the ghost of a smile touch her face as she stood. "I think it'll involve…" She headed for the exit. "Pastries."

* * *

"Thank you for meeting me," she said quietly as they waited in line.

"This is fancy," Elijah said, eyeing the patisserie they stood outside of. It was _the_ Parisian brand, and the line of eager tourists and enthusiasts outside testified to its popularity. He leaned a little closer to Susan even as he kept scanning the crowd around them. It _could_ be an ambush, or some ploy to kill him. That had been his first thought when she'd met him last night and proposed this particular little trip. Yet he'd come anyway… "I take it this isn't just a social thing?"

"Afraid not," Susan said quietly, also leaning in. He noticed that she kept her hands out in the open, visible to him. "This isn't neutral ground."

"Maybe not this one," he muttered. "I've heard the one in Paris has even stricter rules than the Continental."

"You're not wrong. I almost got in trouble with them once over a setup. Some of them still look at me like I'm going to pull a blade on their customers for no reason."

He chuckled. "Remind me to tell you sometime about this coffee place in the Bay Area. So what's this about?"

Susan reached into her jacket and showed him her phone. "Do you know anything about this area?"

He looked down at the screen. The Silver Mountain _had_ been running patrols through there. "What's your interest – or that of your employers'?"

"You know something about it?"

"You first," he said with a quiet hiss. "This isn't smart, Susan. You're playing with fire here."

"Doing what?" she said innocently. "This is just a friendly, _private_ conversation."

"We're still working for competing parties. You know how conflicts of interest tend to get resolved for us." _Conflict of interest,_ he thought bitterly. Another polite, sterile term.

"That's why this is private. And speaking of interests, this is a common one." She stepped closer, almost pressing her body against his so she could whisper into his ear. "Vargas. Is the Silver Mountain active in that area because of Vargas?"

"You're asking me to betray my employers." Elijah kept glancing around at the people around.

"Think of it as a joint operation."

He shook his head. "Because _those_ always end well."

"An exchange of information, then."

 _That could be useful_. "What are you thinking of?"

Susan arched an eyebrow. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours," she said playfully.

"No go." _And don't go there_ , he told himself. _Do not-_ Too late. He felt the corners of his lips twitch upwards as the wholly inappropriate image came to him.

"Should I go first?" The playful twinkle in her eyes vanished, replaced by a sober professionalism. She held the phone up between them. "The reason I'm asking is because Fabbro's men tracked a shipment to that area. They ran into a Silver Mountain patrol." She didn't, he noticed, say _we._ "I'm just interested in where Vargas was bringing that shipment. I don't care if Silver Mountain has any designs on that area, that's not my focus for now."

"Why come to me about that?"

"Fabbro's men lost track of the shipment because of that encounter with the Silver Mountain. There seems to be a good chance that whatever Vargas was moving, it went somewhere in that area."

"And you're wondering if Silver Mountain knows anything about it."

She nodded. "Consider it a situation of mutual benefit."

This was the kind of thing that got a contractor in trouble. And yet… "There might be something," he said quietly.

Interest lit her eyes. "What have you got?"

He took the device from her, fiddling with the screen between glancing around. "Alright, this area. I think there's something going on within these two or three blocks."

Susan bit her lower lip as she examined the screen. "Doesn't narrow it down much, but it's something. What makes you think that?"

"I've been going after the distributors, right? Track the pattern of their movements and a whole bunch of it passes through here. Or close enough that it's noteworthy."

"I'm guessing they haven't set up staked heads to announce themselves," she muttered.

"That would be a little too brazen, even for Vargas."

"Yeah." Her gaze flickered to some point over his shoulder and Elijah saw a flicker of inspiration in her – quite lovely – eyes. He glanced over in the direction of her gaze; some van sitting in traffic, emblazoned with astrological and horoscope symbols.

"What is it?" he said. "You're thinking of something."

"Superstitions," Susan said. "Something to follow up on."

"You've lost me."

"It might be nothing. I don't know yet. But combined with what you gave me, it's a definite start." Her gaze snapped back to its focus on him. "Thank you."

"Try not to make this a habit," he said, sighing. "This is the kind of thing that gets questions asked."

"I know."

Elijah looked towards the patisserie and decided to change the subject. "Why here? We just had to get off Continental grounds. A hot dog stand across the street would have worked."

"It would have," she admitted. "But I wanted to see if you would meet me here."

 _To see how easy I am to get into an ambush?_ "I see."

"Also…" Susan swung around to his side and slipped her arm through his so they looked like any of the others in line. "I like their macarons."

* * *

"So what's this about?" The dark-skinned woman leaned back in her office chair and crossed her arms. "You only show up asking for weird things these days."

"I know," said Susan, holding out a folded piece of paper and a USB drive. "But it all works out better this way."

Marie Triselle sighed but reached out and took the items. "Janice asks about you sometimes, you know."

"Keep her out of this," said Susan, but not ungently.

"Don't worry about that," Marie said as she plugged the thumb drive into her computer. "I don't want her getting mixed up in any of your affairs." She glanced out her office door before working the keyboard.

Marie was part of the city's Department of Records. Susan had used her as a resource in the past to dig up information on targets or to get filed floor plans. This was different. Marie frowned as she read the paper Susan had given her. "This definitely qualifies as weird."

"Don't ask."

"Oh, I won't. I'm just telling you: weird."

"I won't argue with that," Susan said.

Marie worked at the computer for several minutes. "Okay, this should be what you're looking for," she said, tugging the thumb drive from the computer case and pushing it across the desk."

"Thanks." Susan palmed the drive and tucked it into a pocket. She also took the paper and crumpled it up; she'd dispose of it somewhere else.

"I know you said don't ask," Marie said as Susan stood up, "but does this have anything to do with what's been happening recently?"

"What's been happening recently?"

Marie rolled her eyes, then glanced out the office door and lowered her voice. "Come on, you know the things we process. A surge in unexplained homicides ever since one of the city's kingpins was found dead on his private chopper's pad? First responder calls getting tampered with so they only ever arrive on the scene after everybody's gone? Arson and burglary incidents going up – and most of it against properties with known criminal associations? You can't tell me there's not some kind of power struggle happening right now."

"You're right, I can't." Susan sighed. "You know I can't say anything specific, but… the schools should be on break soon, right? Get Janice out of town for a while if you can. Things out there are probably going to get worse."

"That's disturbing to hear."

"That's life." She ducked out of the office and swept up the hallway, moving quickly. With luck, there would be something on the drive she could use.

* * *

"They're here," Rizzi said, pointing to a particular spot on the old map.

Fabbro looked back at her, his expression skeptical. "And why do you say that, doll?"

"It's Vargas," she said. "The core elements are practically a death cult."

"Please elaborate," Edmondo said.

They were in one of Fabbro's offices, a lavishly furnished space like pretty much everywhere she'd ever done business with him. The dark mahogany table he sat behind was currently covered with the old blueprints and city plans Susan had brought with her. "I've dealt with them before, right? They embrace a lot of superstitions. Among them: their choices for operating centers."

"Go on," said Fabbro.

"They have this thing about the watching spirits of the dead or ghosts or something, and where they died."

"What, they avoid places where people died?"

"No." She shook her head. "They seek those places out. I think they believe the dead protect them or favor them. And the more violent the deaths were, the better."

"So you think you've discovered one such location?" Edmondo asked, leaning over the plans as he pushed his glasses up his nose with a finger.

"This warehouse," Susan said. "The place it's built on has a mess of a history. Gang murders and riots during the Civil War, then it was an orphanage that burned down around the start of the twentieth century."

"That's cheery, huh?" Fabbro said, tapping his fingertips together. "You seem quite sure of this."

"Like I said, I've dealt with Vargas before."

"Alright, alright. I want you to keep an eye on the place."

Susan blinked. "Me?"

"You're the one who came to us with this," he said. "And I'm not too keen on my own guys for this, huh? Little matter of them getting distracted when they ran into the Silver Mountain. There's a trust issue there."

Susan decided not to mention it was through the Silver Mountain that she'd ultimately made this discovery. "Fine," she said, "I can cover it."

"Good, good. Look, I'll have them keep casing the neighborhood, let you know if they spot anything."

"There's a plan. And let's say I'm right about this. Engagement parameters?"

"I'll leave it to your discretion," Fabbro said. "But if you get the chance…"

"Of course."

* * *

As Wu entered his car the passenger door opened and Xiao Ma climbed in. He blinked at her outfit; instead of the typical _qipao_ she wore a dark suit that looked like it concealed light ballistic armor. "What's this about?"

"Eighth Tiger has decreed that I accompany you on your next few outings," Xiao Ma said. Her cool unflappability hadn't changed. "It appears an additional first-hand account is desired."

"Doesn't trust me, does he?"

Xiao Ma looked at him frankly. "You are part _laowai_ ," she said, using the old Chinese term for foreigners. "You understand that some see you as a… less than reliable element? Eighth Tiger, whatever his feelings on the matter, must be seen fulfilling certain obligations."

"I do understand," said Wu. He looked her over again. "Are you armed?"

"Certainly."

"I don't mean the knife. Do you have a gun on you?"

She shifted in the car seat and drew a small handgun. "Will this suffice?"

"A Nano, huh? I guess that'll have to do." Wu grimaced. "Small of back carry is a good way to end up hurting yourself though."

"It is the most presentable in social situations, Wu- _cike._ Not all of us spend our days running around the city with the dregs."

"No." Wu started the car and pulled into the street. "Not all of us do."

* * *

A day of observation bolstered Rizzi's confidence in her assessment. Of course, the site lacked some of the more outlandishly brutal accoutrements she'd seen from the Vargas cartel, but the stream of cars passing through was a dead giveaway that _something_ was going on there. Personal vehicles just didn't visit industrial warehouses like that so frequently. She saw groups of men coming and going, many of them giving off a vibe that her gut told her was Vargas. It wasn't anything explicable; more of a gut feeling from the way they moved. She'd seen that swagger often enough in Brazil, that air of cockiness that came with being top dog and knowing it.

There were others too – those must have been the dealers. They drove up, pulled in through the ridged metal door, and then drove off minutes later. If Wu was trying to take out their distribution network, Rizzi thought darkly, he had his work cut out for him.

As it drew closer to evening a pair of dark SUVs pulled up to the warehouse. Rizzi sunk deeper into the shadows of the rooftop she watched from; this was definitely Vargas. Cuhuillo climbed from the passenger seat of the lead car. He stormed in through the gate, disappearing into the depths of the building.

Rizzi tapped her chin. She doubted she'd ever describe Cuhuillo as _happy_ or _cheerful_ , but he looked particularly irefuljust then. Evidently the Vargas cartel wasn't having the best of times in Manhattan. A result of what Fabbro and the Silver Mountain were doing? She settled in and watched awhile longer. Each minute felt like more of a confirmation. Cuhuillo wasn't coming out, and she doubted he'd be lingering like that if the place didn't have some kind of affiliation with the cartel.

A part of her wanted to head in right now, hit the place, and be done with it. But that would be suicide. Leaving aside the fact that she didn't know what might be waiting for her inside, she hadn't brought any of her heavier hardware. A nine-mil wasn't her ideal choice to start a firefight with.

Her phone buzzed. She crouched down, pulled it out. "This is Rizzi."

"How's it lookin', doll?"

"I'd say we found something that's Vargas. One of their heavy hitters is in there now."

"Good, good." Fabbro sounded distracted. "Look, things are getting crazy out there, huh? Damn chinks are running around all over the place, and the Russians aren't cooperating like I expected. I need you to wrap this little bit of business up, fast."

"How fast are we talking about?" she asked.

"Tonight."

 _Well then._ "That's a little hasty," Rizzi said. "There's not enough-"

"You were the one pushing this spot," Fabbro said. "Get it done."

He ended the call and Rizzi tucked the phone away. She blew out a breath and headed for the door to the rooftop staircase. This would entail heading back to the Continental and arming up. Rizzi mentally cursed Fabbro as she moved; whatever immediate inclinations to rush in a part of her might have held, she'd learned long ago to refrain from doing such things. That was a great way to get oneself killed in their world.

 _It's not like he cares,_ Rizzi reminded herself as she snuck towards her car, which was she'd parked a ways from the warehouse. Even in her past dealings with Fabbro, she'd never gotten the sense that he saw any of the people he contracted as anything more than ultimately disposable assets.

But that was the way of it.

Sooner or later every assassin took that fatal contract. That one job that overmatched them; the one that ended it all. The lucky – exceptionally rare – ones might walk away and leave the life behind. Most of the time though, they just bled out somewhere alone and unremembered.

Susan smiled grimly to herself as she navigated the New York traffic. _Letting your mind run again,_ she chastised herself. _Time to focus._

* * *

Wu slammed a fist into the side of the drug dealer's knee. The limb wrenched out of place with an audible _pop_ and the man collapsed, yelling in pain. Wu silenced him with a shot to the head, then spun around, dodging a low thrust from another man charging in behind him. He sidestepped, jabbed an elbow into the other man's temple, and shot him as he stumbled past. The apartment went quiet.

Making another sweep, Wu verified that the place was clear. Xiao Ma entered the apartment, stepping almost daintily over the body inside the doorway. "I must admit," she said, "this is not quite what I'd expected."

Wu glanced around the apartment; clean and well-furbished, the place had an almost elegant air. Not the typical drug den, indeed. He flicked the Jericho pistol to safe and holstered it. "They come from all walks of life."

"These were not just any group of street dealers," Xiao Ma said, looking down at the four bodies sprawled around. "I had word that they were in talks with Vargas. Talks that were growing colder. Something about a concern over Vargas' ability to guarantee their safety."

"Guess they had reason to be concerned," Wu said.

"Yes, what a shame. To think they were just about to receive reassurances."

He frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Why do you think I directed you towards this target?" she asked. "Vargas was to send a representative to discuss matters with them tonight."

"A little warning would have been nice."

Xiao Ma shrugged. "There are those in the Silver Mountain who distrust Eighth Tiger's reliance upon your skills. They would shed few tears were you caught in an unfortunate crossfire between our enemies."

"That's reassuring."

"You are still useful. Eighth Tiger would not wish you to come to harm."

"Well what he does or doesn't want may be irrelevant if Vargas discovers us here. We'd better move."

Escorting Xiao Ma outside and across the street to their car, Wu reached for the ignition – and paused.

"What are you doing?" Xiao Ma asked.

"I have an idea." They'd parked far enough away that they wouldn't be obvious. If Vargas was supposed to be meeting with this group… "Let's see who's coming."

"I thought you wished to avoid a confrontation?"

"I'm not planning on _confronting_ them," Wu said. "I'm just planning to see who shows up – and where they return to. It might be good to know."

* * *

Her phone buzzed again as Rizzi drove back towards the warehouse. "Rizzi," she spoke into it.

"This is the eye."

She wove around another car in the street. "The what now?"

"Mister Fabbro acquired our services to survey a particular section of the city. We were instructed to alert you to any developments pertaining to a certain cartel's activities."

"What have you got for me?"

"Two vehicles, heading north out of the area. SUVs, with one individual fitting the profile of Manuel Cuhuillo."

"Got it, thanks."

"Have a pleasant evening, Miss Rizzi."

The call terminated and she tucked the phone away. Her grip around the wheel tightened as her pulse quickened. So Cuhuillo was heading out; this was her opportunity. No way Vargas left the warehouse undefended, especially if that was their stockpile in the city, but this was as good as it was probably going to get – especially given Fabbro's sudden hurry. She stepped on the accelerator pedal, revving the car up and sending it hurtling forward.

* * *

After what felt like half a day, sitting silently in the cold car while streetlights cast beams of illumination through the night, Vargas arrived. The twin SUVs pulled to a stop before the apartment entrance and disgorged their occupants.

"Son of a bitch," Wu said, sinking down into his seat as far as he could.

"So that is who Vargas sent to negotiate," Xiao Ma said.

"That's one way to put it. I'm starting to think those guys were lucky we showed up first."

"You know that man?"

"Cuhuillo and I have had prior dealings," Wu said, watching as the Vargas enforcer prowled through the apartment doors with several men in tow. "I wouldn't describe him as a diplomat."

Xiao Ma giggled. "There are many methods of negotiation, Wu- _cike._ "

"Do any of them extend to dead men?" he asked, watching the apartment entrance as the minutes ticked by. He'd arranged the dealers' bodies inside and locked the door from the outside as they'd left. Not that there was any particular point to doing so; it wasn't like that would slow Vargas to any significant degree. Still, the thought of irritating Cuhuillo made him grin darkly.

It didn't take long. Several more minutes passed and then Cuhuillo came storming out of the building. "It appears the negotiations were a dead end," Xiao Ma said.

Wu shook his head. "That's terrible." He waited until the SUVs had gone a block before starting the car and pulling out after them. "You keeping track of them?"

Xiao Ma looked over at him, the faintest hint of alarm on her face. "You don't mean to actually attack them?"

"I was planning to track them, see where they're going." He narrowed his eyes, watching the SUVs navigate the city streets while keeping a discrete distance behind them. "But we'll see what happens."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Rizzi returned to a warehouse roof opposite the one held by Vargas. The city lights weren't quite enough to dispel the darkness of the night, so she looked through a night vision scope to make a final reconnaissance of the warehouse in question. The cartel building had nothing to distinguish it from the half-dozen other warehouses it sat alongside. It made sense, really, that they wouldn't want to draw attention – especially considering the amount of product they were moving throughout the city.

Bringing the scope up to her eye again, Rizzi peered through it and took another look for any security measures. The typical cameras covering the typical angles. No surprise – and no problem. At least two guards on the perimeter, walking a circuit that kept each other in line of sight – for the most part. They weren't wearing uniforms; rather they had fairly simple suits formal enough to look professional but unremarkable enough to not stand out. One side door stood at the extreme range of both paths. No, too obvious. She swept the surrounding walls. There, high up in the shadows, hid another camera aimed at the entrance.

Still watching, she waited for the guards to make another round – and found the flaw she'd been searching for. One of the guard's paths just coincided with the metronome swivel of the camera he patrolled past. The door he covered looked like a solid slab of metal with a keycard reader by its side. Good thing the guard idly fidgeted with the keycard hanging from his belt, twirling it in circles as he paced. Well, good for her.

Not so much for him.

Tucking the scope away, Rizzi moved for the ladder leading off the rooftop. She slid down quietly and in the shadow of the dark warehouse drew her VP9 and performed a quick press-check, drawing the pistol slide back just far enough to insert the tip of her index finger into the chamber to feel the presence of a chambered round through her gloves. Letting the slide return to its closed position, she withdrew a suppressor from a thigh pocket and screwed it onto the threaded muzzle before returning it to her holster.

Rizzi unslung her rifle. A B&T APC-556 with a short barrel for extra concealability and close-quarters use; it had been a gift from a grateful executive of the manufacturer after she'd done them a certain favor. A rather bloody favor, at that. She checked the red dot sight mounted on the top rail; the rifle already had a round chambered. A larger suppressor went over the birdcage flash hider at the muzzle; Rizzi locked the quick-detach system in place so it fit on snugly. She re-slung it, making sure it held tight against her body, and adjusted the fit of her ballistic vest beneath her dark coat, making sure nothing rattled.

She tied her hair back and looked across the way, judging the pockets of light and shadow and plotting her movement. Blood. There would be more of it shed tonight.

* * *

The camera turned away as the guard moved past the door – and the dark patch of shadow cast by the nearby buttressing pillar. An arm snaked out, wrapped around his throat, and tugged the guard into the darkness. Rizzi held onto him as she plunged her blade into his kidney and twisted; the guard stiffened in her grip, went rigid, and finally slack. She kept an eye on the camera all the while as it started panning back, and then hauled the corpse up against the door as it turned away again.

Holding the guard's body upright with one hand, Rizzi snagged the keycard at his waist with her other and swiped it against the reader. The metal door unlocked with a _thunk_ and she tugged it open. Levering the body in before her, Rizzi slipped into the warehouse before the camera could see her.

The inside was surprisingly dim; she'd come in through a side door into a corridor of bare metal walls. The overhead lamps cast weak yellow light and still left plentiful shadows.

 _Perfect._

Rizzi shoved the body aside into the closest dark corner and drew her pistol. First, the security room. She'd seen basic plans for these warehouses; the offices should be-

"Paolo! Come on, man!"

Ah, that way. Pistol at the ready, she prowled up the corridor silently, taking in the drab, utilitarian design. A warehouse was a far cry from an art gallery, after all. She slowed as she moved past an empty restroom and came up on a corner.

"Paolo!" She closed in on the doorway where the voice came from. "I told you, man. You can't just wander off to take a piss when you feel like it." Whoever it was sounded more bored than anything else; that was also good.

Rizzi slipped into the office; it had been converted into a security room, one wall covered by a table laden with security monitors. A dark-haired man sat before the screens, slouched in his seat but turning towards the door as she entered. He was fast, she gave him that much; the guard was already reaching for the inside of his suit jacket.

But that was all Rizzi gave him. She double-tapped the guard in the head and swept her gun past, checking the rest of the room by habit. She needn't have bothered; he'd been the only one in the security room. The wall opposite the screens held a circuit breaker box but nothing else of immediate consequence.

Shouts came from deeper within the warehouse. No surprise there – even with a suppressor the shots weren't exactly silent. She heard shouted questions, alarm, calls to arms – at least three – no, four voices. Rizzi holstered her pistol and unlimbered her rifle, flipping the safety off as she tucked it into her shoulder and charged from the room.

Heading towards the voices, Rizzi slid up along one side of the corridor. Footsteps ahead. She settled her cheek against the rifle, got her sight picture in through the optic mounted atop its rail, and shifted her stance down. Another two steps brought her to another corner. She leaned around just enough to clear her rifle – and sight in on two men hurrying down the corridor.

The red dot settled over the chest of the man on the right; she pressed the trigger twice. He went down in a tumble, blood splattering the wall beside him, and Rizzi shifted her aim left as the other man drew to a halt, eyes wide. She put a round through his center mass, then another through his head. The sharp cracks of the rifle through its suppressor echoed in the enclosed space, making her glad she had her earpieces in. Rizzi put one more bullet through the head of the first man she'd downed for good measure, stepped over the mess, and moved on.

If the Vargas men in the warehouse hadn't been sure of what was happening before, they certainly were now. The shouts ahead grew more frantic as she approached. The corridor led to a sitting room of some kind with a set of double doors, open to some space beyond. Rizzi stopped, shot out the lights overhead, and snatched a cylinder from her chest harness. Hurling the flashbang through the doors, she pressed herself up against the wall and covered her eyes with an elbow.

The concussion from the blast rattled her chest; Rizzi was already rushing through the doors, taking a long step to the side as soon as she cleared them. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears like a drum. She had little conscious awareness of the environment details; all her focus went towards locating targets. Rifle in place against her shoulder, she spotted the first man flailing in the open. She stroked the trigger twice, dropped him, and kept moving. As the concussive ringing started fading away she heard more shouting. One to the left – another suited man with a drawn pistol. He fired blindly towards the door; Rizzi put four rounds into his chest in the span of a second, working the trigger rapidly.

A quick look around showed three more men in the large room. These had been smart or trained enough to go for cover when the flashbang went off, diving behind stacked crates, pallets, and shelves that crowded the space. One man leaned around one of the pillars running to the roof and triggered a burst from his machine pistol. He just missed; Rizzi slid behind a bunch of wrapped packages stacked waist-high. White powder burst into the air as bullets shredded across the top. She raised herself up from her crouch just enough to clear the top of her cover and returned fire. Movement from the left caught her eye and she swung the rifle over, firing another trio of rounds as she pushed off and kept moving. Getting pinned down now would be fatal. Somebody else started shooting blindly around the corner of a stack of product across the way.

Screw conserving ammo. Rizzi flipped the selector lever to automatic and swung her sights over. She pressed the trigger; the rifle rocked against her shoulder as she sent a stream of rounds chewing through the corner of the stack. Blood arced through the air, mingling with white powder cast adrift from the force of the impacts. The target crumpled and Rizzi swung behind one of the thick steel pillars in the room. She jerked her head back as a bullet ricocheted off the other side, nearly striking her ear. Bringing the rifle up before her, she grabbed a fresh magazine and dumped the depleted one. Several more shots slammed into the pillar, rattling off with harsh metallic impacts.

Rizzi racked the charging handle of her rifle and peeked out ever so slightly. Two more in the room with her; one behind a pillar halfway across, the other crouched low behind a pile of stacked pallets. Not low enough: she lined the rifle up and took off the top half of his head with a burst. Another burst towards the last Vargas man standing kept him behind the pillar as she moved. Keeping low, she sidestepped towards another stack of pallets. A blind shot went over her shoulder and Rizzi threw herself the rest of the way down, sliding behind the layers of wood. She rolled to the other side and saw his leg just sticking out from the pillar. Sloppy. A shot to the knee drew an agonized scream that she cut short with another burst to the head as the Vargas man doubled over.

She took a deep breath, and-

The door behind her burst open. Rolling frantically aside, she just avoided the trio of rounds the man charging through the portal sent at her. From the floor Rizzi returned fire. The first burst just missed him; she walked the rounds laterally across his chest, making a bloody mess of the doorway and beyond. _Right._ The other guard outside. So that was where he'd gone.

Breathing hard, Rizzi pushed herself up to the feet. The immediate rush of combat began receding as she scanned the room again, then checked the surrounding corridors before returning to the big chamber. It always felt like… surfacing from beneath a cold pool. Her face and hands tingled like a current ran through it; her legs twitched like they were on the verge of spasms. _Breathe._

The warehouse's main chamber came back into focus as she started taking in details again. That was – _wow_ – that was a lot of product. The room was a large space, about two stories tall, broken up by hefty metal pillars. The lighting here was sparse as well: a pair of dim industrial lights overhead that cast pools of shadows around the edges of the room. Most of the chamber was crowded by pallets of stacked drugs: wrapped bundles ready to go. If Vargas had this much on hand, they'd either been planning to make a move in Manhattan for a while or their smuggling network was far better than anybody had given them credit for. Not that it mattered at this point. Space had been cleared by the main doors for several vehicles; stockpiled supplies lay heaped against the wall. She saw spare tires, jacks, boxes of tools, and a pile of red gasoline canisters.

Rizzi moved over to the gas canisters and hefted one: mostly full. _Perfect._ Vargas didn't seem to hold lives of individual members in much regard, but their goods – now that would hit them where it hurt. She carried it over to the closest batch of drugs, laid out on a table for loading, and splashed the gasoline over them, then grabbed more canisters and started dousing pallets around the place. The smell of blood and gasoline mingled in the air with wood and gunpowder. Returning to the vehicle supplies, she rooted through a trio of roadside kits that looked like they'd been dumped from car trunks – probably to make room for product. She snatched a flare sitting at the bottom of a duffel bag. _Too easy._ She could have sacrificed a lighter to do it, but why bother when Vargas left the tools to destroy this operation at her disposal?

Igniting the flare with a flick of her wrist, Rizzi swiped the sputtering, hissing cylinder across the table with the piled drugs. The gas caught with a low _whoosh_ and flames engulfed the table as she stepped back, a savage grin splitting her face. She tossed the burning flare onto the nearest pallet; with all the gas and wood laying around it wouldn't be long before the warehouse turned into a flaming ruin. Rizzi stepped back, tightened her hood around her head. Time to-

The main warehouse doors opened with a rapid clacking, headlights shining in from outside. She spun to see Cuhuillo jumping out from the lead car. His face twisted from surprise to rage as he caught sight of her standing amidst the wreckage of the place.

 _Not good._

Bringing her rifle up, Rizzi opened fire at the cars as she sprinted for cover. Gunfire chased her heels as the two SUVs disgorged Vargas men. Rizzi ran for the shadows, hoping the flickering of the flames would help hide her movements. She tried to take count as she wove between the objects around the room. Five? Six. A trio of rounds rattled off a pillar inches from her head. _Very not good._

* * *

Wu climbed out of the car a block away from the warehouse. Sure enough, it was in the rundown industrial sector where the Silver Mountain had placed a great deal of Vargas activity. "What are you doing?" Xiao Ma said.

Staying low, he stepped away from the car, keeping one eye on the light coming from the open doors of the warehouse and the two SUVs ajar before it. He brought his rifle up, not quite sighting in but holding it at the ready. He'd cut the car lights two blocks back and kept the speed low, weaving for any pockets of darkness at the edges of the streetlights. They didn't seem to have been noticed following Cuhuillo and the Vargas cars back to this place.

They did, however, seem to have come across somebody else attacking the Vargas location already. Gunfire echoed down the street, staccato cracks ringing off the buildings around them. The dancing, flickering shadows cast by the glowing doorway meant a fire inside; whatever was going on, they'd arrived late to the show.

"What are you doing?" Xiao Ma asked again, this time in Mandarin.

"Just getting ready," Wu replied, watching as the figures who'd poured out from the vehicles moved into the building. All except one, who lingered outside, at the edges of the pool of light spilling from the warehouse doors. More gunfire came from inside. Meanwhile the outside man – a sentry, he realized – actually stepped away from the building, turning to cover the street instead. It made sense; this way he could watch out for interlopers approaching from outside and be in a position to ambush anybody emerging from the raging firefight within.

The raging firefight inside a Vargas building after Rizzi had come to him looking for any clues about where they might be.

"This isn't our affair," Xiao Ma said quietly in his ear; she'd climbed out of the car as well, coming around beside him.

Her voice broke through the haze of icy lethality that had come out of nowhere. Wu realized that he'd taken a step towards the warehouse. He'd settled the red dot of his rifle optic over the chest of the Vargas sentry; he grew aware of his breath coming in slow, measured waves and his finger tightening on the trigger.

And he hadn't even realized he'd done any of it.

"This is not the Silver Mountain's doing," Xiao Ma continued. "The force attacking Vargas is not of our men – it's nothing to do with us. We should not make our presence known here."

 _No, it's probably the one person in there_ , he thought. But Xiao Ma had a point. This wasn't his fight. He owed Rizzi nothing.

So why was his finger still tightening on the trigger?

"Wu- _cike._ Is it not wiser to let things play out as they will?"

He lowered the rifle slightly. "Maybe it is." Wu snapped the rifle back into position and pressed the trigger. The suppressed rifle gave a _crack_ as the bullet broke the sound barrier. The Vargas man in his sight staggered and slumped down. He adjusted his sights and fired again, putting a bullet through the squirming man's skull.

A slender hand grabbed the foregrip of his rifle. He pulled away from the sight to see Xiao Ma staring at him, her expression of irritation barely visible in the darkness. "Whoever's in there is doing us a favor. It wouldn't hurt to balance the scales slightly."

"That is yet to be determined," she said. "Do not disobey me."

"Fine." Wu lowered his rifle. "We'll see what happens."

* * *

Rizzi threw herself over a burning pallet, not even noticing the heat of the flames. She squeezed off four shots, just trying to keep the Vargas men back, staggered as something slapped her side hard, and hit the ground behind cover. _Need to even the odds._

She rolled over to her back, bringing the ceiling into- _Aha_. Rizzi shifted her rifle and shot the overhead lights out, leaving the flames expanding through the room the only illumination. Rising to a crouch she shifted towards the back of the room where the shadows and darkness were deepest. She fired single shots as she went, aiming for the silhouettes beyond.

One of them found its target; a muffled groan and spray of blood marked one of the Vargas men going down. Rizzi slipped into the shadows, searching frantically for any of the others. She just caught sight of Cuhuillo ducking behind one of the pillars, an MP5K in each hand. Another Vargas man came rushing up past his left side; she put a trio of rounds through his chest and felt the bolt lock open; the gun was empty. She kept moving. In the darkness she reached for her last rifle magazine and-

Almost snarled a curse.

In place of a fresh mag hung a warped, twisted bundle of metal and polymer. So that's what the impact against her side had been: some bullet deflecting off. No penetration – it had just busted the mag up. She supposed it should have been a damn miracle it hadn't set off the rounds inside, but it still meant her rifle out of action. _Shit._

A crunch of wood alerted Rizzi to one of the Vargas men nearly on top of her, stepping over a pallet as he swept the darkness with his weapon. His eyes, pale orbs in the flickering light, widened as he caught sight of her and he swung the pistol around. She parried the arc of the gun with her own rifle, catching his wrist with its frame. The Vargas man's gun roared and sent a bullet past her, the flare from its muzzle lighting them up for a split second. Rizzi threw herself into a rear roll just as a storm of gunfire pounded the space they'd been, shredding the hapless Vargas man before he could react.

Rizzi kept scrambling backwards, dropping the empty rifle as she went. _Sidearm it is._ She tugged her pistol out as the gunfire continued. Another burst of automatic fire, then the rhythmic clicking of magazines being swapped out.

"Nowhere to go," Cuhuillo called. "Gonna eat your heart now, _puta._ "

Knowing Cuhuillo, he might actually be serious. Rizzi didn't respond to his baiting; she moved for the doorway leading deeper into the warehouse. With the Vargas cars before the main doors her original exit plan was now a bust. The side door – the one she'd come in through. There was a way out. She needed more darkness. Stepping as quietly as she could, Rizzi kept heading for that hallway – and threw herself down as a spray of shots came in again.

Bullets punched ragged holes through the flimsy internal walls at chest height while she rolled aside. The long, chattering burst ended abruptly after what felt like an eternity but couldn't have been more than a couple of seconds. Cuhuillo had emptied both magazines simultaneously, dumping sixty rounds through the cartel building. _Holy- Wait._ She took a long, slow breath to calm her racing heartbeat. _He can't keep that up._ How many magazines could he possibly have on him? Cuhuillo would burn through all his ammo at this rate. _Draw him out._

Rizzi snatched one of the loose bags of product nearby and hurled it towards the wall off to her side. A burst of rounds shredded through there a second later. From a different direction, too. Cuhuillo was also on the move. Not terribly surprising. She scanned the room as she backpedaled, looking for any sign of-

There. A Vargas hitter, crossing before one of the SUVs, submachine gun at his shoulder. She lined her sights up and pressed the trigger twice, riding the recoil to keep the pistol on target. The cartel man jerked as the rounds thudded into his chest; she saw the surprise on his face by the glare of the flames. Rizzi adjusted her aim and pressed the trigger again. Messy pink mist spattered the tinted windows of the car behind the target. He dropped, missing a part of his face and the back half of his skull.

Abandoning all pretense of stealth Rizzi sprinted for the double doors. She dove through the opening, rolling to one side as bursts of fire came from the main chamber. Rounds thudded into the couches scattered around the sitting room, punching holes in the water cooler along one wall to spout gushing leaks. Another burst drilled a series of ragged holes in the walls around her at chest height. Cuhuillo yelled something at the others, presumably an order to hunt her down. Well then, no reason to stick around and make it easy for them.

Rizzi sprinted up the hall and threw herself into the security room, barely managing to avoid tripping over the corpse already in there. She flung the circuit breaker cover open and ran her hand down the switches, slamming them all to the off position. The warehouse plunged into darkness and more shouts came through the halls. They knew where she was now. Moving quietly but swiftly, Rizzi made her way to the side entrance – and shoved against the door fruitlessly several times.

The door that needed an electronic keycard. _Good going, Rizzi._ Slowing her breathing with a deep breath, Rizzi stepped away from the door and followed the hallway away from the main chamber. The outside halls formed a perimeter of sorts around the big room like an incomplete rectangle; she'd rather head the long way round, try to get the flank on the others. The only light now came from the fire going in the main chamber shining through the bullet holes riddling the walls. It cast flickering orange shades that danced and distorted in the dark hallways like some mythical underworld – and those bullet holes promised exactly that if she got sloppy again.

Rizzi listened as she moved; if these guys were smart they'd have sent people along both directions. Cutting the power should have made them more cautious. She kept checking behind her as she moved – and sure enough, from behind came quiet muttered curses and the tread of slow footsteps. One of the moving shadows behind her wasn't the same flickering random dance of the others. It moved in a straight line, blocking orange patches shining through bullet holes as it did so. Rizzi raised her pistol. The tritium night sights she'd had installed registered as three pale green dots in the darkness.

Another moment as she kept still… He was close enough now that she heard the other person's ragged, panicked breathing and the soft crunch underfoot-

A ray of light suddenly revealed a splash of skin, stark against the dimness as the cartel man passed before one of the bullet holes and revealed himself. Snapping her sights over, Rizzi put one round into his chest, adjusted her aim, and put a second through his skull. She moved as he collapsed and calls came from elsewhere in the warehouse.

The burning warehouse.

That thought nagged at her as she kept moving. Time was running out. She'd meant to be gone by now, leaving behind a pile of burning product. But flames had a way of burning on. Well then. _Time to wrap things up._

Another long burst of gunfire from elsewhere tore more holes through the wall, letting light trickle in. Cuhuillo must still be in the main chamber, just hosing down the rest of the warehouse. Not exactly safe for his men, but then this was the man who'd burned most of a village trying to get to her the last time they'd exchanged gunfire. Collateral damage seemed to be something he reveled in.

Circling through the halls, she stayed low and kept mindful of whatever patches of light shone through bullet holes and doorways. The crackle and whoosh of the flames covered her footsteps, but also masked sounds her hunters might have made. _Hunters._ Time to make it the other way around, she decided.

The hallway ahead ended in a bend, one of the corners of the building. Perfect place for an ambush. Fortunately, the restroom bordered this particular hall. Ducking inside and wrinkling her nose at the smell, Rizzi felt around for the little bottle of liquid soap sitting on the sink. The plastic jug felt mostly full – good. She leaned out, hurled it down the hall to bounce off the wall midway, and ducked back into the stinking room as a wild spray of automatic gunfire roared out.

The clack of a bolt locking empty sounded both shocking loud and quiet in the aftermath of the long burst. A snarled curse came down the hall. Rizzi was already moving, sprinting down as soon as the other shooter had run out. She threw herself down around the corner, tackling the shooter at the knees just as she heard a magazine slam home.

Both of them went down in a tumble in the darkness. Rizzi threw an elbow up blindly and caught the other's gun, jarring it aside before he could release the bolt. He grunted and punched out, hitting her vest like a rubber mallet.

She brought her other hand up, pressed the muzzle of her suppressed pistol into the man's chest, and pressed the trigger three times. As his arm went weak she pushed herself up and off, located the outline of his head on the ground, and put a final round through it. She blew a breath out, pushed herself up, and moved on, continuing the circuit back towards the main room. Two down in the hallways, three in the big room. That left Cuhuillo.

Rizzi crept up on the door leading out of the hallway, staying low as another burst of automatic fire drilled through the walls. How much ammo _did_ he have? The glow of the blaze beyond the door filled the last half of the hallway with a hellish red light and threw everything into stark relief. The stench of the smoke filled her nostrils; the flames had grown. And while that was partly the plan, it hadn't included getting trapped in here with Cuhuillo while the building burned down around them. Keeping as far back as she could, she scanned the flickering, distorted room ahead for any sign of the cartel killer. Where would be a good place to cover the-

She threw herself down at the shadow of movement, just barely dodging the two short bursts of gunfire that punched through where she'd been standing. Rizzi rolled aside frantically; another two bursts of rounds kicked dust and debris up from the ground beside her and a hot sting pricked her left calf. "Gonna fill you with holes!" he called, voice guttural and scratchy. "Rape you through each of them!"

Well, that was pleasant.

Finishing the roll, Rizzi planted her feet, went up to her knees, and returned fire blindly. The trio of suppressed nine-mil rounds felt like a sad response to the automatic gunfire coming her way but at least it was something. She rolled to her feet and took another step to the side. Glancing through one of the many holes perforating the wall she looked again for Cuhuillo's location.

Movement gave him away. His tall, brawny silhouette charged from one of the shadowed corners to cover behind one of the pillars in the space. Peeking around the doorframe, Rizzi squeezed off two more shots and sprinted into the room as Cuhuillo tucked himself further behind the thick steel column. She went for the closest pillar herself, slamming into the surface and breathing hard. The big burning stockpiles spread around the warehouse room threw off waves of heat as they roared and crackled. Licking flames hid and distorted everything with shimmering mirages, which suited her just fine as Cuhuillo cut loose with another burst that rattled off the pillar like hideous musical chimes.

 _Wait for it…_

Another burst of rounds followed a second later and she leaned out tracking with her pistol. Cuhuillo had gotten too much of a routine going and that made him predictable. Rizzi pressed the trigger repeatedly as she swept her gun across the path of the form darting for the next pillar. A sharp, strangled grunt of pain greeted her, but Cuhuillo threw himself behind cover before she could really get sighted in.

The pistol locked empty in her hand. Rizzi reached to her waist for a reload-

And grimaced as her hand fell onto empty magazine holders. _Not good._ She hadn't realized she'd burned through so much ammo. Another burst slammed her pillar, _loud_ even through her hearing protection, and stopped short abruptly. She heard a wet, muffled snarl of frustration and seized the opportunity.

Charging out, Rizzi rushed through some flames towards Cuhuillo's location just as he swung out. The glow of the flames highlighted a ghastly wound on his face. The right half of his visage had been rendered into a bloody mess, a ruin of flesh and bone that looked particularly hellish in the orange glow of the fires. Her shot much have punched through his cheek at an angle. Strips of skin hung off his jaw and blood ran down his neck. She leapt over an empty pallet towards him to meet his own charge halfway.

Cuhuillo must have run out of ammo himself; he tossed one pearl-plated submachine gun aside and swung out at her with the other like a metal club. Rizzi ducked the blow and lashed out. She threw a jab towards his knee that he deflected by turning his thigh to meet the blow, taking the force on the meat of his leg. He hammered an elbow down on her shoulder, thudding into the strap of her vest. Rizzi rolled with the impact, avoiding the worst of it by tucking down and to the side. She barely pulled her own leg back before he stomped down hard on it. The stomp thudded into the floor, its impact audible even over the blaze. Rizzi lashed out with the pistol in her hand, slamming the butt into Cuhuillo. He dropped his other gun and swung at her.

The fight devolved into a blur of blows and counters. Rizzi hit him twice, dodged a blow that would have crushed her skull, and kept moving circling around frantically. Her breath came in ragged gasps; the smoke building up in the warehouse rasped the back of her throat. She tried to keep her distance – Cuhuillo's size and reach tilted the odds in his favor when it came to brawl. And what the hell was wrong with this guy? The wound to his face should have messed him up something fierce, but it only seemed to further enrage Cuhuillo. He hammered in like a machine, throwing blow after blow in a storm of fists, elbows, and knees that she barely kept up with.

And then she missed one.

A blow slipped past her guard and slammed into her torso. It knocked the breath from her lungs in an explosive huff, doubling her over even through the vest. He kicked out at her leg and off-balance as she was Rizzi only just managed to roll aside, gasping for breath as-

Cuhuillo's hand clamped around her neck and hauled her up to look into his ruined face. Exposed bone glared stark white in the glow of the flames. His eyes shone with a crazed light of their own as he slugged her in the torso again with his other hand. Swinging her around, Cuhuillo slammed her into a pillar. The impact jolted through her body like a train crash and she saw stars for an instant.

Rizzi slammed the pistol butt into Cuhuillo's wrist – with as much effect as trying to hold a dam together with her hands. She brought her knee up between his legs, which got her a strangled gasp and another punch to the ribs. His grip felt like a vice around her throat clamping tighter. She grasped at his hand, clutching at the web in an attempt to weaken his grip.

Cuhuillo slammed her against the pillar again, and then hauled her towards the burning mound that had once been the table of piled drugs. That really wasn't good. The heat grew more intense as she kicked her legs, trying to find purchase against the floor to no avail; Cuhuillo's height and reach let him carry her clear off the ground if he wanted. The searing sensation at her back told her she was running out of time.

Desperately Rizzi drew her legs up, scrunching herself into a ball. That threw him off balance. As the arm hauling her dipped towards the ground trying to hold her unsupported weight she threw her ankles around his shoulder. Locking them together, Rizzi rode out the fall. She hit the ground with a painful thud but dragged the cartel triggerman down with her. Keeping her grip on his hand she twisted her hips, wrenching arm in its socket. Cuhuillo snarled a curse, kicked up and over to alleviate the pressure, and pushed himself up. Rizzi dropped the empty pistol and let his efforts give her a boost towards getting to her own feet while she reached for her waist. She bounded up – the knife in her hand lancing open with a click.

She jabbed upwards, plunging the blade into the underside of Cuhuillo's left arm. He bellowed and lashed out with his other fist. She dodged to the side, reducing the blow to a stinging graze against the top of her ear. As she tugged the blade out a spurt of blood followed. She'd hit something important, she recognized immediately. That kind of blood spray almost certainly meant an artery. The kind of thing that ended a fight.

Except Cuhuillo seemed to have missed that particular memo. He kicked out, driving her back, and pulled a large chisel-pointed knife from his belt. Rizzi ducked a short swing, feinted left, and leapt back from another diagonal slash. What the hell was he on, that he could keep going like this? He launched another flurry of blows: stabs, slashes, and kicks that made her dance back out of range as she coughed in the smoke. It stung her eyes and throat while the heat from the blaze felt like she was inside a furnace. _Can't keep this up much longer._

Cuhuillo finally began to slow. Panting hard, he glared at Rizzi with a manic hatred in his eyes. She'd killed him – they both knew it – and he intended to drag her to hell with him. And that meant he'd be desperate, sloppy. His swings grew wilder, leaving more openings in his guard. She could play it safe, stay on the defensive until he bled out.

But the burning warehouse made time an issue. And, truth be told, she'd had enough of this psychopath. Flipping her knife to a reverse grip, Rizzi dropped her guard for an instance to invite an attack. He took it: of course he had to. Cuhuillo came straight in, throwing a series of jabs with his uninjured arm. Rizzi leaned aside from the first one-

And launched herself forward into him. She threw a palm strike at his face, obscuring his vision for the instant she needed to plunge down with her other hand in a hammer blow from her centerline out towards the side. The arc met the inside of his thigh; her blade punched through fabric and flesh with casual ease, cutting through his femoral artery. She ripped the knife free and stepped back, ducking another swing as she did so.

That seemed to get through to Cuhuillo at last. Blood pumping from two ruptured arteries, the cartel man staggered backwards. His arms dropped, the wounded one slick and crimson in the fire's light. Still glaring at Rizzi, he collapsed forward facedown. She stepped back out of reach as he made one last grasp for her ankle. The pool of blood spreading beneath him grew with a lethal swiftness.

She watched through the thickening smoke as he grew still. She picked her pistol up, then moved through the growing blaze to retrieve the rifle she'd dropped earlier, and finally fled the burning warehouse for the cold night outside. The damp and chill hit her like a stun gun, but it came as a welcome shock after the events within. Susan paused several meters outside, breathing hard.

* * *

He watched her, the soft red dot of the rifle optic steady over her panting chest. "And who is this, then?" Xiao Ma said at Wu's side. "One person to assault a Vargas holding? How bold."

Wu said nothing. Rizzi looked remarkably intact for having taken on Cuhuillo; that was damned impressive.

"An independent?" Xiao Ma continued, "Or a competitor? What say you, Wu- _cike?_ "

"I'd say she just did our work for us," he said. "That was Vargas' top hitter she just took out in there."

"Which makes her dangerous. It may be prudent to remove this individual from the equation while she is vulnerable."

 _Vulnerable._ He couldn't deny that was what Rizzi looked like at the moment: coughing and shuddering in the night sky, magazine-less rifle held loosely. It would be easy – just press the trigger.

Wu lowered his rifle. "She's not a threat to us right now. And she's just crippled Vargas' immediate operations in this city. We should leave before the authorities respond."

"And so lies Vargas' endeavor. Ashes and dust." He looked over to see Xiao Ma staring at him, an expression he couldn't read on her face. "Interesting. Where comes this sentimentality from? Are you acquainted with this lone gunwoman?"

"I recognize another professional when I see one." Wu flipped the rifle's safety and started unthreading its suppressor as he walked back to the car. "This is a professional courtesy."

"Really." Xiao Ma climbed into the passenger seat. Her gaze roamed over Wu, then turned back to Rizzi in the distance. "Interesting."

* * *

Once she'd caught her breath Rizzi hurried back to her car a block away, avoiding the pools of illumination cast by streetlights to the best of her ability. She climbed in and took a deep breath. As the adrenaline receded and the aches and pains from the night flooded her senses, Rizzi checked herself over for any pressing injuries. The sting in her calf was the worst; it didn't look like a direct hit in the admittedly paltry light of the car cabin. A chunk of spalling or a ricochet from the looks of the gash. No immediate danger of bleeding out. She rummaged through the little trauma kit in her pack for a field dressing, slapped it on, and started the car.

The evening hadn't quite gone according to plan. She snorted gently to herself as she pulled away from the curb. _That's putting it mildly._ Behind her the orange light of the inferno billowed smoke into the night sky. Not neat, not clean, but she was still alive.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Half-limping into the Continental's lobby, Susan walked right up to the front counter, unsurprised at Charon's presence – or his calm gaze. "Good evening," he said.

"Evening." Susan grinned ruefully. "Is the doc available?"

"It may be a short wait," Charon said apologetically. "He is currently attending to another patient."

"No rush. I'll live."

"I expect you will."

"Send him up when available, please."

"Of course."

* * *

"Well, you'll live." The Continental's Doctor was an old Asian man whose spectacles lent him a scholarly air that belied the world-weary tone of his voice. Understandable, Susan thought; how long could somebody stitch up illicit gunshot wounds, stabbings, cuts, and the various risks of their profession and retain any sort of idealism?

Probably for about as long as somebody who inflicted those wounds.

"This isn't really anything too bad," he said, finishing up some neat sutures after swabbing the cut on her calf with antiseptic. He'd laid out the contents of his med bag on the table in Susan's room with easy familiarity. "I'd tell you to take it easy and not put it through anything too strenuous for a few days, but _that_ particular piece of advice doesn't get heeded much these days."

"Things keeping you busy?" Susan asked.

He grunted an affirmative. "Not that it's any of my affair," he said. "What occurs outside stays out there. I just patch you all up." He nodded at Susan's torso. "Alright, let's take a look at those ribs. Shirt up, please."

Leaning back in the chair by the table, Susan tugged her shirt up to just reveal her ribs. The doctor prodded the area with coldly professional detachment. "Is there any pain when I do this?" he asked, pushing gently at a particular spot.

"No."

"That's good. Nothing seems broken, so it looks like you were fortunate."

"Glad to hear it."

"Do you need anything for the pain?"

"Nothing too strong," said Susan. "I still need to be functional." She shook her head quickly at his silent glare. "Not tonight; I mean in general."

"Ah." The doctor rummaged in his kit for a moment and drew out a small plastic bottle. "Two at a time. They'll make you drowsy, so try not to get into any car chases or firefights after ingestion."

"No problem. Believe me: a good few hours of peace and quiet sounds like the best thing in the world right now."

"That's the first sensible thing I've heard all week," the doctor muttered.

"I hear you." Susan stretched experimentally, testing out her shoulder and ribs. Sore, but no shooting pains. Good sign. "Thanks a lot, doc."

He snorted as he began packing up. "You can thank me by not getting yourself killed out there."

"No promises."

Susan waited until the doctor had cleaned up and left, then shrugged out of her battered clothes and headed to the bathroom. She hopped into the shower, scrubbing the sweat and grime from her body and the stench of smoke from her hair. She let the water just pour down and sluice over her body for several minutes, reveling in the sensation. With the adrenaline gone the soreness and bruises of the night made themselves known in a variety of locations, from her shoulder blades to knuckles to thighs: everywhere she'd taken some kind of impact without noticing during the fights.

When she'd finished Susan returned to the room wearily and looked at the heap of clothes on the floor. She decided to deal with them later. She swallowed two of the pills, collapsed onto the bed, and stared up at the ceiling until the painkillers kicked in, numbing everything in her body. Eyelids heavy, she pulled the thick blankets up, reached out for the light switch and-

Jolted awake at the knock from the door. Light from outside the windows flooded the room. The sounds of morning traffic drifted in.

Morning?

What?

She looked around blearily, still feeling the fog of the painkillers. _Drowsy, indeed._ Another knock penetrated the haze. "Yeah," she called, and threw the covers back. Half-stumbling to the door, Susan pulled it open.

Elijah Wu looked back at her. He opened his mouth – and it hung open as his eyes widened. Belatedly Susan realized she'd forgotten one rather important step in the process: getting dressed.

Damn painkillers.

She swung the door mostly shut and peeked through the crack. "Yes?"

"Uh." Elijah seemed to need a moment before finding his voice. "That breakfast thing. Were you still up for it?"

"Oh, right. Yeah." She nodded. "Give me a minute? Let me get dressed."

"Don't rush on my account." He shrugged innocently as Susan narrowed her eyes. "A person might get ideas, you open the door like that."

She stuck her tongue out at him for a second. "Well, don't go getting any."

"Of course not," said Elijah.

"Uh huh." Susan pushed the door shut. "I'll be right there."

"Take your time," he said through the wood.

Feeling sturdier on her feet now, Susan headed into the bathroom and splashed some water onto her face. A brief scrub made her feel mostly human again, and she threw on some clean clothes: a pair of comfortable old jeans and a thick shirt to ward off the encroaching winter chill. Elijah was leaning against the opposite wall when she opened the door again. "Sorry about the wait," she said.

"I don't mind," said Elijah as they walked down the hall towards the elevator. "You got dressed real fast."

"Not the first time I've ever had to throw something on quickly."

"Hmm." He glanced at her as they entered the little square lift and pulled the gate shut. "So, crazy night?"

"What makes you say that?"

Elijah seemed to chew over his answer for a minute. "Well, you don't strike me as the kind of woman who frequently answers the door in her underwear," he said gingerly.

Susan gave him a sidelong glance out of the corner of her eye and raised an eyebrow. "Sure of that, are you?"

"I wouldn't complain if you were," he admitted with a wry grin. Susan felt a hint of warmth blossom in her cheeks. Then his grin faded, replaced by a sort of cautious concern. "You also look…"

"Terrible?"

"I was going to say something slightly more diplomatic."

Susan grunted. "You're not wrong. It was the work kind of crazy night, not the fun kind. And-" She cast an eye over Elijah again. "You look like you've been through it yourself."

"You're not wrong." One of his cheeks had a shadow of a bruise, his lower lip was a little puffy, and he carried himself with the air of somebody sore and stiff all over.

"Not the fun kind of night either?"

He chuckled softly. "Well, I don't know about that…"

"Hey, whatever makes you happy. I won't judge."

"I'm sure you won't."

"If you're not sore the next morning, you're not doing it right."

Elijah swung his head to gaze flatly at her. Susan returned the look with a straight face but felt the corner of her mouth quirk upwards as the elevator came to a halt. He swung the gate open and cleared his throat. "After you."

"Oh, after you, I think." Susan smirked at his questioning expression. "You've already gotten an eyeful. Time to return the favor."

"Are you serious?"

"Absolutely." She made a show of leaning over to inspect his rear. "And we're holding up the elevator, so move that well-formed posterior."

Elijah stared at her for a moment before grinning. "As you wish." He made it several steps out of the elevator before pausing. Without turning around he said, "Lady, I've taken punches that had less force than your stare."

"Keep walking," Susan said as she exited the elevator. "I'm enjoying the show."

Now he glanced back at her. "I feel objectified."

Susan laughed – and felt a sense of surprise mingled with relief that she still could after the events of the previous evening.

* * *

"So what did happen last night?" Elijah asked in the Continental's dining room once their orders arrived.

Susan took a bite of her oatmeal and chewed slowly. "I'm not sure I should tell you."

"Right. Work-related, conflict of interest and all that." He took a sip of coffee.

"Well let's say, hypothetically, I hit a Silver Mountain location last night. If I did tell you about it, what would you be obligated to do?"

Elijah looked around at their surroundings. "Here? Nothing."

"I mean once you checked in with Eighth Tiger. Or if he calls you and tells you to eliminate the one who did it?" Susan shook her head. "No, this is just self-preservation."

"I get that." He stared at her for a moment. "But you didn't hit a Silver Mountain place last night."

She stared back for a moment, wondering what he knew, and then things fell into place. "You were there last night. There was a dead Vargas man in the street as I was leaving. That was you."

Elijah nodded fractionally. "That was impressive work there. Cuhuillo?"

"Dead." She closed her eyes, briefly reliving the fight, and blew a breath out. "Thanks. For the Vargas guy outside. I really wasn't in any condition to take another one on." The admission stung, though not nearly as much as she'd expected. "But as I said, the fewer details you're aware of, the better all around."

"Alright. I suppose that does limit the conversation topics between us."

 _What 'us' is there,_ she wondered, then shook the thought aside and grunted. "No more so than having a breakfast conversation with somebody normal. 'Hi honey, I shot up a warehouse of drug traffickers last night. How was your day? Did the stock markets close alright?' Come on."

"Hey, if it's a choice between shooting drug traffickers or Wall Street, I know which one I'm taking."

"Same here," Susan admitted. "But my point is that what we do inherently isolates us from other things, other people. Or at least, polite company."

"Do I not count as-"

"No."

He grinned. "Remind me, who answered the door in a sport bra?"

"Quiet, you." She took another bite of the oatmeal. "I just mean, what is it that polite assassins converse about with one another? Especially ones working for… competing interests?"

"Hmm." Elijah leaned back in his seat, quiet for a moment. "I don't know." Then he shrugged. "Direct impingement or gas piston?"

Susan blinked at the sudden question. "What? Uh, piston for me any day," she said, nonplussed by the sudden change in topic to rifle operating systems.

"Short or long stroke?"

"What, are you trying to sell me a gun?" Susan sat back herself. "I use a short piston myself right now, but I've always liked long strokes."

"Huh. Why that over a short piston system?"

"Reliability and durability," replied Susan. "Fewer moving parts, less hard impacts."

"What about the recoil? Heavier on piston guns."

"If you're implying that I can't handle a long stroke, I will hurt you."

His coffee mug froze halfway to his mouth. "We are still talking about rifles, right?"

The corner of her lip twitched upward in a grin. "Sure, yeah."

"Just making sure. So, not a fan of DI guns?"

Susan shrugged. "Nothing wrong with direct impingement – if you don't mind scrubbing every last centimeter of its innards after you use it. You can do other things with that time."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, bake muffins? Scuba dive? Make love? Do calligraphy? Whatever the hell you want to?"

"Well, I know which of those I'd pick."

Susan rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I bet."

Elijah nodded. "Oh yeah. I form some mean gothic letters."

She blinked for a moment, and then started chuckling.

He smiled. "That the only reason you don't like direct impingement? What about accuracy?"

"I never said I _dislike_ gas guns," Susan said. "And the accuracy thing is overstated. We both know; it's more an operator limitation. You run an X95. Assuming you don't go crazy with full auto, you should be able to put shots on target at any kind of meaningful distance."

"True enough," he said.

"The other thing about direct impingement is that you start running into reliability issues when you get into the really short barrels."

"And you prefer those?"

"Of course. Concealment and profile. What, I'm going to run around with a twenty-inch barrel and a can on the end? Not exactly subtle."

"There's always bullpups."

"Eh, not my cup of tea. Just personal preference."

"I noticed," Elijah said. "What was that you had last night? A SCAR? Or are you a German gun kind of girl?"

"Swiss," said Susan. "Brügger & Thomet."

"Hard to pronounce their name, but I've heard good things about their rifles."

"Well-deserved. That thing is my baby."

"Don't tell me you name your weapons?"

She snorted. "Hardly. I just appreciate craftsmanship."

"Like macarons?"

"Certainly." Susan felt her smile turn impish. "You know, a good rifle is a lot like sex."

Elijah arched an eyebrow. Susan felt a flash of heat in her chest; she wasn't exactly sure why she'd gone there. "You might have to explain that one," he said.

"Well, everything has to come together for a specific goal. It's got to fit your body: the points of contact have to feel good. Length of pull ought to be just right. Your hands should be able to manipulate all the important parts easily. The trigger needs just the right amount of tension – and stiffness. And when it breaks, you're supposed to get one hell of a bang."

His face wavered between amusement, bemusement, and something else. "Alright, now you're just teasing."

"Maybe."

Elijah shook his head but chuckled quietly. "Your rifle looked like it had a folding stock. That a big deal for you?"

She nodded. "It's not a hill I'll die on, but sure. For concealment and portability, they're hard to beat."

"Fair enough. I suppose open carrying a battle rifle is a little ridiculous."

"Pfft. You think?" Susan too another bite of her oatmeal, and then frowned. "Hey, don't you operate in California quite a bit? How do you get away with carrying what you do?"

"Oh that's simple." He grinned over his coffee. "Don't get caught."

"What ingenious advice," said Susan. "I don't think I could have thought of that myself."

"Can't help if it's true. Besides, it's easier than you'd think."

"So much for all their gun laws out there," she said, spearing a piece of fruit from a little platter between them.

"Hey now, they do a perfectly adequate job of keeping those dangerous firearms out of the hands of honest law-abiding citizens," he said after another sip.

"Good thing that's not us."

"Indeed."

"Guess it really is the same everywhere."

"Same people writing the laws also smuggle weapons in to sell on the black market," he said.

"Funny how that works."

"Yeah. And lots of people out there carry – for the most part, just don't make a fuss about it."

Susan smirked. "What, to get an advantage in that cutthroat tech industry?"

"A fair number, yes."

"What, really?"

"Oh yeah." He popped a chunk of fruit into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully. "The tech giants play nasty. Add in all the competition for venture capital, and you've got some bloody backroom deals."

"Hold on." She frowned. "I've never seen any contract listings from the guys out there."

"That's because you're not in," he said, then shrugged at her puzzled expression. "The Bay Area tech companies are funny that way. They like their triggermen like their food: locally sourced."

"What?"

"I mean it. They tend to keep things… well, not exactly in-house, but definitely close to home."

"Huh. Do you know why?"

"I suspect it has something to do with keeping up appearances."

"Appearances?" She frowned for a moment, then smirked again. "Afraid they'll be exposed as no better than the East Coast fat cats they so disparage?"

"Wouldn't surprise me. You're no stranger to the game," said Elijah. "You know how things work; the brighter and shinier something is, the darker the shadow it casts."

Susan sighed. "Isn't that the truth. Sounds like a cozy little party over there."

"It's… busy."

"Busy?"

"Everybody is always trying to get into everybody else's systems and organizations. Looking for things like what's in the pipeline, prototypes, holes in their security, and so on. So a whole bunch of this stuff is digital now."

"Of course," said Susan. "I presume that means a lot of hacking."

"They like to hire out, and do it anonymously."

"Deniability is a wonderful thing."

"It certainly is – just one problem. Anybody good enough to get into a rival corporation's systems may be good enough to get into your own. So for the ultimate in deniability…"

"Right," Susan said, nodding. It really didn't sound too different from, well, anywhere else in the world. Patsies manipulated by those who'd stumbled into power and were determined to get more of it. "And nobody wises up to it?"

Elijah snorted into his coffee. "The tech companies have adopted a term from the CIA. They call it 'mowing the grass.' There's no shortage of dumb young guys eager to make their mark. Take one out, another appears eager to do the same."

Susan chuckled darkly, but the thought struck her that their own profession wasn't so different.

"And there's more to it than that," he continued. "There's the smash and grabs where people try to get their hands on prototypes, making sure certain engineers don't jump ship to rival companies-"

"How do they do that?" Susan asked.

"I understand a popular go-to is for said engineer and family to take a one-way trip into the middle of gang territory."

"Ugh, that's nasty."

"Oh, very. And pity the person who leaves some next-gen prototype at a café or restaurant."

"And stuff like this is happening all the time?"

"Not daily, but often enough, yes."

"So much for that happy image they present to the world."

"Honestly, I think that's a big part of why it's so cloistered. They value that image, how they're seen by the outside, even as they're busy helping some two-bit warlord in some African hellhole torture and enslave villages so they can get slightly cheaper heavy metals. Deniability is good in our circle, but it's damn near priceless the way _they_ do things. And they've got enough people eating out of their hands that it works."

"So did New York," Susan pointed out. "Right up until one man took out the top dog and a whole bunch of it went tits-up."

"Point. But the Bay Area doesn't have an alpha – at least not right now." Elijah looked thoughtful for a moment. "Maybe that's what'll happen here: things will settle into a sort of equilibrium and balance themselves out."

She felt her fatalistic grin return. "With these people? That seems optimistic."

"Yeah, probably. A shame nobody ever seems to just sit down and talk it out, huh?"

"If they did we'd be out of work," Susan said dryly.

"Good point. Then what would people like us do?"

She felt the corners of her lips twitch upwards. "Find more trouble to get into, I expect."

"Heh. You're probably right."

"Not that I wouldn't mind some peace and quiet," Susan said. "It's just that… I'm not sure I _can_ do anything else."

He gazed at her for a moment. Susan had a sudden sense of vulnerability, as if she stood on the wrong side of a firing range about to go hot. Her heart flipped and her fingers tensed. The look he gave her – it wasn't the predatory calculation she expected from someone in their business. It wasn't even a sense of polite disinterest, that look that said _I don't care about this, so hold on while I come up with something to placate you._ No, it was a look of… understanding. A look that seemed to pierce through all the defenses she'd carefully built up over the years.

And Susan suddenly realized that it scared her on a far deeper level than if he'd just pulled a gun on her.

Because it felt like he got her, like he _knew_ her.

Wu's eyes flickered through several shades of thoughtfulness. He nodded almost imperceptibly. "I think I-"

She started as her phone buzzed. With a mixture of relief and annoyance Susan snatched the device. "Excuse me."

"Yeah, of course." He sat back, and she thought she saw a similar mix of emotions flash across his face. Susan read through the message and sighed. Wu cocked an eyebrow when she looked back up. "Let me guess: work?"

"Work," she said, still uncertain about whether to feel annoyed or relieved – and all the more irritated at herself for it. "He's got uncanny timing," she muttered.

"You're heading out, then?"

Susan started to nod – then paused, frowned, and shook her head. "No, I don't think I am. I'm going to finish breakfast. _Then_ I'll head out."

"Oh." Elijah blinked. "Is that wise? Keeping a mob boss known as the Blacksmith waiting?"

"If he wanted me immediately, then he shouldn't use phrases like 'at your convenience' with me." She shrugged. "The world will still be there in an hour or two. It'll take more than us to bring things to a screeching halt."

"Are you sure about that? Look what Wick did."

"Neither of us is John Wick," she replied. "And even then, just how much impact do you think he's going to have in the long run? Maybe the face of the top dog looks different, but… the underlying system – it's been in place long before us. And it'll be around long after we're gone."

"I doubt you're wrong."

Susan tilted her head. "I sense a 'but' there."

"Well, I just wonder if being the catalyst for some kind of change in the system isn't something to aspire to."

She laughed then. "You might as well try to create world peace."

"Oh, I agree. But it's the idea. I mean, none of us here are particularly cut out for holding down a regular job, right? Doesn't mean we can't try to improve things in our own way."

"Bettering the world one contract killing at a time?"

He seemed to mull it over for a second. "You can't deny that some of the targets deserved it."

"And some didn't." Susan held her hands up, palms upward like a scale. "Not sure how that balances out in the big picture."

"Don't know if it can," he admitted. "But it'd be nice to leave some kind of legacy beyond a trail of bodies."

"It would." Susan thought back to yesterday night, the warehouse and the flames and the blood and Cuhuillo's stare as he toppled over. "But I don't think that's an epitaph many of us are getting."

"No, probably not." He lifted the coffee mug in a toast. "So here's to enjoying the little things before that moment."

"Agreed," Susan said, glad to shift the conversation to slightly more cheerful grounds. She sat back, fiddling with another spoonful of oatmeal. _Legacy._ Now there was something few assassins concerned themselves with, even if, in a sense, their profession was intricately entwined with creating, altering, and ending them. _Admit it, Rizzi; this is not your forte._ She stared at Elijah, wondering if he often thought about it, and if so, why.

* * *

"Well, well! The lady of the hour!" Fabbro's face lit up as Rizzi entered the penthouse room. She glanced around, taking in the presence of Edmondo and Tracitus at the dark wooden table. "The Eyes send their compliments. That was some work last night."

"It's what you pay me for," said Rizzi, uncomfortably aware of Tracitus' gaze on her body. She shrugged it aside. "That was an awful hurry to get things tied up with Vargas, though."

"The demands of business," Fabbro said. "Priorities shift. You did good, though. Better than could've been expected. Their stockpile gone, their representative dead."

 _Representative,_ thought Susan, was perhaps an overly polite term for what Cuhuillo had been. She'd have gone for something more along the lines of 'unhinged psychopath.' "What's this pivot about now?" she asked instead.

"Oil, my dear," said Tracitus from the table.

Rizzi blinked. "You infringing on the Saudi's turf now?"

"Not the crude kind," Tracitus said with a dismissive wave. "The olive kind."

"You're kidding."

"You know how much the Italian government's regulations cost each year? How much good profit would go to waste? How many harvests-"

"Tap-dancing Christ," Fabbro interrupted. "Don't get him started." He walked over and slapped Tracitus on the shoulder. "He'll yammer your ears right off."

"You're smuggling olive oil in?" Susan said, feeling her day take a turn for the surreal.

"The good stuff," said Tracitus, "not that supermarket shelf shit."

"The restaurants will kill for this stuff," added Fabbro. "In some cases literally."

"Why am I not surprised?" Susan muttered. She blew out a breath. "Alright, what am I doing in all this?"

"It's the chinks," Fabbro said. "Our path in runs through Silver Mountain territory."

She glanced over at him. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but wouldn't it be easier to just go around then?"

"No can do," Fabbro replied. "Julius has been in… let's call it aggressive negotiations for a while now. Bastards in the old country are stubborn, huh? Got no room for weakness of any kind."

"So they'd rather see you try to bull your way through hostile territory?" Susan asked, looking closer at an annotated map.

"A show of force," said Edmondo. "It would send a message to our overseas partners."

"That you're all eager to get into dick-measuring contests?" she said.

"Oh I would be delighted to let you measure mine," said Tracitus, smirking at her. "You'd love it."

Rizzi rolled her eyes. "So what are you planning?" she said to Fabbro.

"They don't have a firm grasp on these neighborhoods," he said. "It shouldn't be hard to uproot them, considering what you just pulled off, huh?"

"Burning down warehouses full of drugs is one thing. Burning down apartments is something else."

"What, you squeamish suddenly?"

The truth was Susan found the idea reprehensible. She met Fabbro's gaze calmly and instead said, "It's a good way to make a hell of an impression with the local authorities. And beyond. That kind of shit gets you disappeared down a dark hole somewhere, Marco."

Fabbro stared back at her for a moment, then glanced away. "Not what I'm having you do, anyways."

"Surgical precision is preferable here," Edmondo said. "Silver Mountain's representative in this territory is a relative newcomer to their ranks. He is known as Huo the Red Lion."

"Stupid nicknames, the lot of them, huh?" remarked Fabbro. A bit rich, thought Susan, coming from somebody who'd cultivated the moniker 'The Blacksmith,' but she kept silent.

"Huo is essentially running the neighborhood as a probationary fiefdom, proving himself to Shun," continued Edmondo. "His resources are limited, and he's been hesitant to call in more from the greater Silver Mountain."

"It'd look bad for him if it seemed he couldn't handle things on his own," said Rizzi.

"Precisely."

She shook her head. "Alright. Say you remove him. What then? That might just make the Silver Mountain move in with force."

"You won't need to worry yourself with that, doll." Fabbro gave her a smug little smile. "Give me some credit, huh? I've got a deal going with the Yakuza. They've got no love for Shun and the Silver Mountain."

"Is that a good idea?" Rizzi said. "Aren't things crazy enough already?"

"The japs aren't all that interested in things way out here," said Fabbro. "They don't want the whole pie, just a slice."

"So you're offering them one?"

"Mutual self-interest. It's a wonderful thing, doll. Makes the engine of civilization go round. So don't worry your pretty little head. Just make the commie kitten or whatever the fuck he's called go away. The japs ought to be keeping the chinks busy elsewhere."

She turned to Edmondo. "Alright, give me whatever intel you've got on him."

He held out a thumb drive that she took and pocketed. Tracitus chuckled. "That's so outdated. Why not just message the details?"

"What are you, fucking dense?" said Fabbro. "Operational security is a thing."

Rizzi headed for the door. "I'll check in when it's done."

"You do that, doll."

* * *

Eighth Tiger Shun cradled the little cup of tea in his fingertips, regarding Wu over the wisps of steam rising from the top. "So Vargas has been curtailed," he said in Mandarin. "And from multiple angles. We struck from below, while another went for the head."

"Not exactly the head," said Wu. "The cartel itself is mostly untouched. They could always try again."

"And no doubt they will at some point. But we are alerted to their methods now. And from the reports, their chosen man here is now a charred corpse."

"Cuhuillo had it coming."

"We all do," said Shun lightly. "That is the nature of our world, Wu- _cike._ Now…" He glanced over to the side, where Xiao Ma sat on a tall stool at the counters along the wall, legs crossed demurely as she flipped through a stack of documents and papers. "Xiao Ma said the two of you spotted the one responsible."

"For Vargas' warehouse, you mean."

"Correct. This individual must possess some skill. A potential problem?"

"Isn't everybody?"

Shun looked silently at him for a moment. "An acquaintance of yours?"

"We didn't get a good look," Elijah said. "I may have run into her at the Continental once or twice."

"Hmm. Perhaps it is unsurprising. The _Jianghu_ has ever been a domain of wanderers crossing paths. Sometimes they are as brothers, others as enemies." Shun rotated the teacup, took a sip, and set it down. "No matter. The distraction that Vargas posed is eliminated or much lessened, and with minimal cost to us. To attain a result without effort; such is true mastery."

"But sometimes force is required." Wu smiled grimly. "That's why I'm here, after all."

"Just so. And the time has come to return our attentions to Fabbro. There is yet more work for your hands."

Wu nodded. He wondered how much longer it would be before he and Rizzi ended up on opposite sides of a firefight again – and who would walk away when that moment came. He mulled over Shun's words. This was their world, indeed. "I'll take care of it."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Chou Yu racked the charging handle on a Chinese-made bullpup carbine, testing the action several times. "So you're joining us again?" he said to Wu. "Had enough of running around with the bottom feeders?"

"I won't mourn any of them," said the assassin, glancing around the large supply closet of the Silver Mountain holding. Ostensibly an office holding, the interior reminded him more of a training facility for a guerilla army. Behind the entrance and the first several rooms dressed up to look like any other number of Manhattan office spaces waited chambers of fitness equipment, sparring spaces, and armories like the one they were in now. One wall held racks of rifles and carbines. The opposite wall had handguns from a variety of sources, everything from worn 1911s and Glocks to Chiappa Rhinos and other monstrous revolvers made to take down rampaging boars. Wu hefted one of the magazines lined up on the center table. "Is this wise?" he wondered. "This type of round isn't common in America."

Chou Yu shrugged dismissively. "Let our enemies know who kill them and be afraid."

"It's not the people you shoot with these that are the concern," said Wu, stripping a round from the magazine and holding it up to the light. "It's the people who investigate afterwards."

Chou shrugged again, like he'd never given it any serious thought. And perhaps he hadn't, thought Wu. As a pledged member, Chou Yu had the backing of the Silver Mountain on certain matters. They might not exert their full influence for just anything, but they likely had enough pull that even many of their lower-level members weren't overly concerned with law enforcement.

He slid the cartridge back into the magazine and set the whole thing down. "So back to Fabbro."

"He has been oddly quiet," Chou said. "Preoccupied with other matters, perhaps. Easy prey."

"Maybe. But don't get cocky. That gets you killed."

* * *

Rizzi strolled down the hallways of the apartment where Huo was supposed to run things for the Silver Mountain in this part of town. She cast an appreciative eye over gleaming chrome surfaces and angular bevels as she moved through; art deco dominated the internal design.

Security had been surprisingly lax, but perhaps that had something to do with the Red Lion's desire to prove himself as an efficient administrator. Armed thugs everywhere might be harmful to whatever image he was trying to cultivate. She moved through the building floor by floor, taking the stairs while she quickly checked for surprises within. Not a whole lot; most of the building seemed to be filled with legitimate tenants. That could be problematic.

Huo didn't quite have the penthouse, but he was several stories below it in one of the larger suites. Rizzi stole up to the door, listening for any hint of people beyond. Nothing – though maybe the insulation in the walls was just really good. Quite the possibility in a place like this. She drew a set of lockpicks from an inner pocket of her coat and had the door open in a minute. Rizzi slipped in; the door shut with a gentle click as she shifted clear of the frame, scanning the room.

The space reminded her a fair bit of where Fabbro conducted business in his penthouse. The door led to a wide rectangular room with a long table dominating the center. Chinese paintings hung from the walls, covering slate gray surfaces with ivory and red. An assortment of porcelain wares stood in waist-high alcoves. Clutching her knife with one hand, Rizzi stole through the apartment. She checked the rest of the suite before locating what seemed to be his office – or something like it. The desk in here was far more crowded; two monitors sat side-by-side and neatly stacked piles of papers covered most of the surface.

Paging through the documents revealed little. Most of them were in Chinese or seemed to be written in some kind of cipher. With a sigh, Rizzi looked out the tall windows that lined the corner room. Huo had a pretty nice view, she thought. Skyscrapers dominated the skyline while the hustle and bustle of the streets below looked almost like streams of humanity winding down artificial canyons.

But sightseeing wasn't her purpose here.

Rizzi looked around for a spot to hide in – and wait.

* * *

Hitting a target in broad daylight, even something like a former train station, was never Wu's preference. Located as it was away from the bustling metropolitan centers, the risk ought to have been lower, but the principle of the matter still rankled him. The others in the car seemed to share his sentiment; Chou fiddled with the dashboard controls while the two in the backseat repeatedly worked the safeties on their weapons. Finally Wu turned halfway in the passenger seat and glared at them. "It's not going to help if you cause a negligent discharge while we're still five minutes from the target. Cut it out."

The two in the back gave him sullen looks in response but at least stopped flicking switches on their weapons. Wu sighed; times like this made him appreciate working alone. At least Xiao Ma mostly just watched calmly and quietly. He eyed the navigation map; they were almost there. "Stop here," he told Chou. "Let me approach on foot first."

The Silver Mountain man pulled over and Wu climbed out. The chill of the wintery air bit his face. He stuck his earpieces in. Loosening his sword from its sheath under his coat, he set off towards the station, paralleling the railroad tracks.

Avoiding the cameras covering the street, Wu had gotten to the southeast corner of the old brick building when a side door opened and a man stepped out. He dragged on a cigarette, paying little attention to his surroundings, and Wu made it to within arm's reach before he glanced up. "Those things will kill you."

Fabbro's man dropped the cigarette and reached for his coat. Wu intercepted him, catching his elbow with his left hand. His right hand came out from his own coat, gripping his sword. He plunged the blade in underneath the man's arm, running him through both lungs and heart from the side. Wu caught the Vargas man as he collapsed with a wheeze, lowering him down to the ground quietly. He sent a quick message to Chou's phone once he was certain nobody was storming out.

A minute later the two loaded cars of the Silver Mountain crew roared up before the former train station, windows already rolled down. Muzzles extended from the sides facing the building while men dismounted from the opposite doors and lined their weapons up. "Kill!" Chou shouted in Mandarin.

A deafening barrage of gunfire erupted from the Silver Mountain men, shattering the windows of the station and chipping away at the brick walls. Wu ran up to the side door as he pulled his rifle out from where it'd been slung on his back. A peek inside showed a handful of men hunkered down behind overturned tables and chairs or pressed up behind the steel columns supporting the roof. One lay splayed out by one window, a pool of blood spreading beneath his suited form. The others returned fire with pistols and submachine guns.

Wu lined his rifle up. One of the men must have noticed something from the corner of his eye; he swung towards the side door with a shout of alarm that went unheard amidst the roar of firearms. Wu shifted his aim and shot him through the chest twice while the man was still bringing his pistol around. Another shift, two more rounds, and another man went down. The one closest to the door swung his gun over and sprayed the frame with a burst as Wu ducked back. Brick and mortar fragments stung his face.

He leaned out, fired several more shots, and ducked back from the return fire. Bad idea to get predictable. More bursts of gunfire came from the Silver Mountain crew; a cry of pain came from inside and he crouched down to alter his exposure before peeking around the doorframe again. The closest man was on the ground now, clutching his shoulder while trying to cover both the door and the windows. Wu solved that particular dilemma for him with a bullet through the head.

The last of Fabbro's men still up inside was pressed up against a column, reloading with shaking hands. Wu shot him through the neck twice, and stepped away from the doorway. Moving into the open, he waved for the Silver Mountain to cease fire.

Chou led the men up, a wide grin on his face. "Invigorating!" he yelled, then waved the men forward. "Check the building, quickly."

Wu headed back in through the side door as the Silver Mountain poured in through the front. A single gunshot rang out as one of them found a survivor and changed that state of affairs. He looked around, ignoring the bleeding corpses, at the laden tables in the room. Two tables with guns laid out, magazines next to them and half-empty boxes of cartridges. The sight made him think of the Silver Mountain armory earlier in the day. The similarity was almost jarring.

He shook the thought aside. "Take those," he said, pointing at the weapons.

"What is this?" one of the Silver Mountain men wondered, poring over the collection of large, bundled jugs that took up much of the room.

Wu moved over and knelt beside one of the jugs that had been punctured by a stray round. Clear, viscous fluid dribbled out to the floor. That scent… "Oil," he said. "Olive oil."

"What is Fabbro doing with oil?" Chou asked.

"I don't know. But if he wants it…"

"We deny it." Chou turned back to the others, who were hauling weapons out to the cars. "We have no space to carry these."

"Then it stays here." Wu held a hand out to Chou, who tossed him a harness with a pair of incendiary grenades. He waited for the last of the guns to be carried away, then pulled the ignition pins and tossed the grenades onto the jugs. "Time to go."

The grenades went off with an angry hiss, like some vast angry serpent. A groan came from one of Fabbro's men, trying to crawl away from the sudden heat. "Let him burn," said Chou as he left.

He wouldn't have long; the blaze grew with a hungry intensity. Wu stepped over to the weakly struggling man and pulled his pistol out. "Sorry about this."

He shot the man through the base of the skull and left as the flames surged up. Moving at a brisk pace, Wu climbed back aboard the Silver Mountain car and pulled the door shut. The air within stunk of propellant from the guns discharged inside.

"That was a waste of a bullet," Chou said, pulling the car away. A series of rapid pops and cracks came from behind them as the remaining ammo inside the train station cooked off in the blaze. "He was dead either way."

"Yes he was." Wu glanced out his window. "But he didn't need to die like that."

"Like what?"

"Burning," said Wu. "Alone."

* * *

Late afternoon had arrived by the time something finally happened at Huo's apartment. Rizzi had secreted herself away in his office, waiting for the Silver Mountain man to return. She might have expected to be bored, but found the reprieve welcome. Recent jobs had been hectic enough that a little bit of waiting, a little lull, came as no burden.

The noise of the city almost covered the rattle of keys in a lock. She listened as the outer doors opened. Footsteps: one set the unmeasured tread of a man, the other the click of heels against hardwood. So Huo had company. Great. Rizzi listened and stilled her breathing as the footsteps drew closer. The sound of quiet conversation drifted through – the voices of a man and a woman, both speaking Chinese. She listened for the ebb and flow of the conversation. It didn't sound flirtatious or playful. Business related? Possibly, but no way to tell for certain.

They weren't going for Huo's bedroom; the footsteps came towards his office. That also wasn't terribly conclusive. The stocked bar along one wall would do just as well for entertaining purposes. Rizzi grimaced. This had the potential to get messy. _Heh._ Still probably wouldn't compare to last night.

Rizzi shifted to readiness as the door opened smoothly. She waited in the corner next to the door, and the slab of worked wood hid her from sight as the two entered. She tracked them by the sounds of their footsteps and voices, until they had just gotten… _there._

Bursting into motion, she pushed the door aside with one hand while lunging forward. Huo was just rounding his desk, his face turned towards the windows. His female companion stood near the center of the room, scarlet-clothed back to Rizzi as she spoke softly.

Left hand leading the way, Rizzi's charge carried her into the other woman. She wrapped her arm around her throat and squeezed, cutting her voice off and clenching the woman's throat in the crux of her elbow. Rizzi caught a glimpse of their reflection in the window, of wide panicked eyes. The woman's hands clawed at her arm to no avail. She drew her pistol with her free hand as Huo spun around.

Huo looked like a young, clean-cut executive, all styled hair and immaculate clothes. His face was another story; shock and dismay etched his eyes and the line of his mouth. One hand twitched for his suit jacket flap, but then he held both hands away from his body. Rizzi wondered briefly if that was because of her gun pointed at him or the other woman she had clutched against her.

A moment later the sleeper hold did its job and the woman went limp, slumping against Rizzi. She fired before the weight threw her too far off-balance. The suppressed hollow-point round destroyed Huo's head with a wet thud, painting the window section behind him with blood and gray matter. His body collapsed at the same time that Rizzi lowered the unconscious woman to the floor.

She looked down at her face: smooth and pale, almost doll-like in its beauty. Her whole look reinforced that image, from pinned hair to vibrant red _qipao._ Rizzi lined the pistol up with the bridge of her nose – and paused.

She didn't know who this woman was. This could just be some young lady who'd been about to have a pleasant evening with a handsome young exec. Rizzi holstered the pistol and found her spent casing, plucking it up and dropping it into a pocket. She left the apartment quickly and quietly, locking it from inside with the nylon loop trick, and walked swiftly down the hallway for the elevator. Huo didn't have guards lingering around, which cut a layer of complication out of her extraction plan. It seemed rather foolish to her, given everything that had been going on, but perhaps he really didn't rank high enough to qualify for full-time protection from the Silver Mountain.

The elevator doors shut with a gentle rumble and began its descent; Rizzi kept a grip on her pistol under her coat nonetheless. She wasn't in the clear just yet, but that was about as clean as it might have gone. Except it wasn't.

Susan sighed. Even cleaner would have been eliminating both the occupants in the apartment. Make it look like a murder-suicide, with no survivor to pin blame on a third party. That would have been the smart play. And once, she would have had no compunction about doing it that way.

So what had changed?

She grimaced; _not the time,_ Susan told herself. Only, it never actually seemed to be the time, did it? Or maybe self-reflection just wasn't something she was cut out for. The elevator doors opened and Rizzi walked out casually. She didn't go through the lobby, turning instead for the service exits. Her phone buzzed halfway there; Fabbro with a new address, demanding her presence there _right the hell now._

* * *

Wu watched the burned-out station through a scope, situated on a rooftop over a block away. He had doubled back, getting off the Silver Mountain convoy once they'd gotten a safe distance away. For a while black smoke had been the only thing of note. Then a convoy of SUVs had pulled up – in an unintentional echo of the Silver Mountain attack. Most of the occupants had been guards, men in drab suits who had spread out and formed a perimeter around the scene. There were two others that stood out: one a tall, strongly built man and the other a slender man with glasses.

He watched as they investigated the scene, the bespectacled man on a phone all the while. The other one, the brawny one, grew more distressed as he looked on, visible even from this distance and the fading light. The man with the glasses – that must have been Fabbro's adjutant, the one known as Edmondo. If he was there, the contents of the station must have mattered to Fabbro. Well, Eighth Tiger would be pleased to hear that. The other-

A flicker of movement at the very edge of the optic caught Wu's attention. He nudged the scope just a hair, bringing a car into focus as it rolled to a stop beside Fabbro's SUVs. A gray car. One he'd been inside, actually.

He cranked the magnification up as Rizzi stepped out of the vehicle, her coat rippling in the chilly wind.

* * *

"Doesn't look like anybody's catching a train here anytime soon," Rizzi muttered as she walked up to Tracitus and Edmondo.

Tracitus clenched his hands together atop his head, repeating "holy fuck" over and over as he stared at the scene.

"I assume this was one of Fabbro's holdings," said Rizzi.

"You assume correctly," Edmondo said, nodding. He seemed unperturbed by the carnage. "One of the initial stocks of our… imported goods was under guard here."

"That was a year of negotiations," said Tracitus. "Gone up in smoke!"

"Calm yourself," Edmondo said, with the air of somebody who was just a little fed up with repeating something. "This was not the only shipment."

"No, but this," Tracitus gestured at the rubble, "was the stuff from the Giancarlis. What the fuck do you think is going to happen when they hear about this!?"

"It may not come to that," Edmondo said. "Provided we continue handling things properly on our end."

"Oh this is what you call handling things properly?"

"Do you know who did this?" Rizzi broke in, looking around at the scene.

Edmondo shook his head. "We only got word of gunfire, that they were under attack. No identities."

Rizzi cast her gaze around again, focused on the light glinting off the ground by Fabbro's cars. She walked over, studied the dispersion of the spent brass littering the area. "Offhand, I'd say it looks like they pulled up to the front and hosed the place down. Probably right around where you parked."

"And obviously dismounted at some point," Edmondo said, pointing to several burn marks in the brick remains. "The fire originated from within."

Rizzi crouched down and plucked one of the spent casings, holding it to the light for a better look. "This wasn't NATO or Russian ammo. It's five point eight by forty-two." She arched an eyebrow. "Know anybody who uses Chinese military hardware?"

"Hmm." Edmondo adjusted his glasses. "Most perturbative."

"What does that mean?" Tracitus demanded. "Who is it?"

Susan rolled her eyes. "It's Silver Mountain." From her crouch she glanced around. That tingle at the back of her neck… she'd swear she was being watched.

* * *

Elijah lowered the scope. For a moment it had seemed like Susan stared straight down through the lens at him. Impossible, he knew, but still…

His phone buzzed. "Wu- _cike_ ," said Xiao Ma on the other end. Her voice sounded hoarse and sore.

"Are you alright?" He knew she was supposed to have been meeting with Silver Mountain functionaries around the city today, but not much else. "Has something happened?"

"Report back to Eighth Tiger immediately." She hesitated, and then said, "I appreciate your concern."

The line went dead before he could respond. Tucking the phone away, Wu peered through the scope one last time. He saw Fabbro's people climbing back aboard their vehicles; saw Rizzi in her own pulling away from the site. He moved for the access door on the rooftop.

* * *

"Nothing else?" Wu said, once Xiao Ma had finished relating what happened at Huo's apartment.

"Nothing else," she said. "It was entirely too quick. I never saw our attacker's face."

"And his door was locked."

"When I came to, yes. Whoever it was did not disturb anything else in the place. There was not even a bullet casing."

"That's very polite," said Wu.

"Very professional," she responded, one hand caressing her throat.

"Sloppy on the Red Lion's part," rumbled Shun, pacing back and forth besides his table. He paused beside a delicate-looking vase and stared at it for a moment. "The one who pulls away from the herd draws the attention of the predators. He should have had measures in place to protect himself. A pity that he did not survive to learn better."

"Wu- _cike_?" said Xiao Ma. "You look like you have something on your mind."

Wu nodded. "Professional," he said. "But it was somebody who dislikes collateral damage."

"Go on."

"You're still alive." He shrugged at the look she shot him. "This was a deliberate job. Somebody put you in a sleeper hold and shot Huo. So we're pretty sure who the target here was. But why leave you alive? Why not kill you? No offense to the dead man, but he wasn't as important as you are."

"Could it have been a personal matter?" Shun suggested.

Wu shook his head. "I doubt it. Too clean, too neat. Personal is almost always messy. And it doesn't tend to leave bystanders untouched." He gestured at Xiao Ma's neck. "Well, relatively. Hence my collateral damage comment. If it was a job targeting Huo, which it's looking like, it would have been even tidier to kill you, make it look like a murder-suicide or something. No loose ends. Speaking professionally, of course."

"Of course," Xiao Ma said.

"So it was a specific job. And I bet the shooter didn't have the whole picture. Unless Huo had something else going on entirely, it's likely this had something to do with the Silver Mountain."

"That is fair to say," Shun said, resuming his pacing.

"So…" Wu nodded at Xiao Ma. "They didn't know who you were. Like I said, not the whole picture."

"Then they had some knowledge of Huo's affairs. Perhaps this was not coincidence…" Shun tapped his chin with two fingers, looked over at Wu. "Your strike against Fabbro today. I heard of the oil and the weapons. You went back to observe?"

Wu nodded. He reported what he'd seen, about the presence of Fabbro's right-hand man and the other one. Shun pressed for any details he could remember, seemingly committing the man in question to memory – and likely death in the near future.

It was only after he'd been dismissed and was on the way back to the Continental that he realized he'd omitted any mention of Rizzi from his account to the Silver Mountain.

* * *

Fabbro hurled the platter of cold-cut meats aside, shattering it against the far wall. "How did they know?" he yelled, face an alarming red.

"There is no specific indication they did," said Edmondo. "The other stocks were not hit; there was nothing to show that the station was targeted for its contents."

"So, what? Just bad fuckin' luck?"

"It does happen," Edmondo said mildly. "And as I've already noted to Mister Tracitus, we did take the precaution of distributing the shipments to multiple locations. This was not crippling."

"No, but it's embarrassing," Fabbro snarled. "That's almost as bad." He took a deep breath, blew it out, and sat back down at the table. He placed both hands flat on the surface and looked over at Rizzi. "Is Huo dead?"

"He is," she said.

Fabbro sighed. "At least something went according to plan, huh?" He swung back to Edmondo. "Get the shipments moving, double the guard. Get in touch with the japs. Get them involved, _now._ "

Edmondo nodded, pulled his phone out, and started tapping away at it.

"Give her the list too," Fabbro said, jerking his chin towards Rizzi.

"List?" she said.

"Addresses. Known hideouts, safe houses, businesses. Silver Mountain shit. Pick one. Go to it. Kill everything there. Now."

Rizzi almost refused. Fabbro, however, looked angry enough that she felt confident such a thing would result in his ordering _her_ death. So she looked over at Edmondo. "Give me the information."

He spoke quietly into his phone, so he merely nodded once at her and held his tablet out for her inspection. She pored over it, forming a mental map of the locations in the city, and committed one to memory. Rizzi handed the device back to the preoccupied Edmondo and turned for the exit.

"Doll." Fabbro's voice cut through the air when she'd gotten halfway there. Rizzi paused, looked back. "Make it messy," he said.

She left the room and retrieved her weapons from Tony in the chamber outside. Rizzi checked her pistol for a chambered round, holstered it, and set off.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

The buzzing of his phone woke Elijah from a fitful sleep. He rolled over, checked it, then the time, and hauled himself out of bed. A quick shower and shave later he dressed, stepped out of his room, and-

Nodded at Susan as she stepped out of her own room. So she was up earlier as well. She returned the nod, gave him a little half-smile. "Hey," Susan said, "about breakfast-"

"I can't. Need to head out right away."

"Ah, good. I mean, me too."

He nodded again. Nothing else ought to be said; whatever it was must have been business-related. They walked together, entered the elevator. "Was that you last night?" Elijah said as it began trundling downwards.

Rizzi looked back at him, weariness and wariness in equal measure in her eyes. "And what might you be referring to?"

"Seems a bunch of Silver Mountain places throughout the city got hit last night. Bit of a mess right now."

"And you think I did all of that?" A sardonic grin crossed her face. "I'm flattered."

"Well, it often seems I'm a step behind you these days on the scene," he said, leaning against the elevator wall. "Like with Vargas and Cuhuillo."

"Or a step ahead." Rizzi's tongue flicked across her lips. "Alright, I'll do yours if you do mine. Did you have anything to do with a former train station getting shot up and burned down yesterday?"

Elijah stared at her for a moment. "Can neither confirm nor…" He trailed off, feeling a rueful grin set in. "It was the ammo, wasn't it?"

"Not exactly subtle using Chinese-specific stuff, no." She reached out and tugged the gate open as the elevator came to a halt. "The laundromat on sixty-third and fourth." Susan stepped out of the elevator and strolled away.

Elijah followed in her steps a moment later, letting the distance build while he wondered what she meant. The path took him through the Continental lobby. He waited while her coated form disappeared through the front gates; the less he knew, the better – or so it felt. Then he set off across the lobby, nodded at Charon in his immaculate suit at the front desk, and-

"You." The voice drew him to a halt. Elijah turned to see a slender Asian man crossing the marble floor towards him. Tattoos down the back of his neck peeked out from beneath a fine business suit. He tried to place a name to the face; squared-off features and a short, neatly trimmed goatee that set off eyes with all the soullessness of a serpent.

Wu blinked, felt his stance shift ever so slightly despite their location. The other man did so as well, setting his long leather suitcase down. "Yes?" Wu said.

"Do you know me?"

"Hirawa Tokayushi." What the hell was the Black Dragon Society's pet killer doing here? When had the Yakuza gotten involved?

The Japanese man sneered at him. "And I have heard of you. The mongrel swordsman. Rootless one."

"I've heard of you too. The Flayer of Kobe. Can't say I'm a fan."

"Those deaths were necessary," Hirawa said calmly. "As yours is now." He glanced around the Continental lobby. "I challenge you to meet me outside neutral ground. We shall cross blades. I desire to see your skill for myself before I cut you down."

Wu chuckled. "Why don't you get checked in first? Make yourself comfortable. I'm busy right now."

"Another time, then." Hirawa picked his luggage up and turned towards the front desk, where Charon watched them both with an impassive expression on his face.

Wu shook his head as he walked towards the Continental gates. Things were getting too complicated.

* * *

Fabbro was staring at a map of the city laid out across his table when Susan entered his penthouse. Marks and notes had been scrawled all over it, outlining territories, webs of influence, nodes of relationships, factional dealings. The map drew a picture of the shadowy underworld they lived in – a picture that looked increasingly bloody and chaotic. He glanced up at her, waved her forward. "Looks like the japs got involved, huh?"

Susan took in the marked areas where Yakuza hits had just taken place. Sure enough, it looked like the beginnings of an encroachment on the Silver Mountain's holdings. "It's done," she said, "although it probably just blends in with everything else that just happened."

Fabbro shrugged. "Sometimes you just gotta let off some steam. No big deal."

"I take it Edmondo and Tracitus are moving your other shipments now?"

"We'll get things back on track. But you…" He levelled a finger at her. "Gotta keep the tempo up, huh? Need to coordinate with the Yakuza. They're sending one of their own professionals to lend a hand here. I figure you should be the point of contact."

"Me?"

"Word is he has respect for the bloody. Folks with ice water in their veins. You should be perfect."

A twinge of discomfort ran down Susan's spine, but she kept any expression of it from her face and nodded instead.

Fabbro held out a piece of folded paper towards her. "It's just a meet and greet. Here's to the beginning of a beautiful partnership."

* * *

A half-dozen men crowded Shun's meeting room. Territorial overseers, they clustered around the table as each gave reports and details of the carnage from last night. Elijah waited in the corner, watching as Shun, seated at the table, listened with impassive face. Xiao Ma stood off the side, taking notes and annotating a map that hung from the wall with each new report.

"It is the Japanese," said one of the Ranking Brothers. "Their movements are scattered and weak. They-"

"They probe for cracks and weaknesses," said Tiger Shun. "Like the waves of the ocean against a cliff. And we will not be found wanting." Leaning forward in his seat, Shun laid out a set of rapid instructions for his underlings, speaking so quickly in Chinese that Elijah had a hard time keeping up. One by one the Ranking Brothers bowed and left, hurrying back to their domains of responsibility.

Elijah moved over to the map once most of them had left, staring at the large picture of the city and the small, neat writing that covered its surface. He looked over at the junction of sixty-third and fourth, saw the little circle drawn there.

"Does something catch your eye?" Xiao Ma said, moving to his side.

Wu tapped the location in question. "What happened here?"

"One of our holdings," she said after a moment. "A laundromat. It serves as a processing center for young females brought in to serve as companions."

 _Sex slaves,_ he thought, but refrained from saying so. "What happened there?"

"Three men killed," Xiao Ma said. "Close range, pistol rounds. The women vanished."

Wu lifted an eyebrow. "Vanished?"

"It appears somebody spirited them away, from some rumors on the street. To add further insult, no doubt."

"No doubt." He wondered to himself what Rizzi had done with the slaves.

"Why do you ask about that particular place?" Xiao Ma said.

"No reason. Just curious." Elijah decided to change the subject. "I assume you'll want me to strike back against the Yakuza?"

"Just so," said Tiger Shun, rising from the table. He moved over to the map as well, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "The Japanese have not had a strong presence in the city for a long time. For them to make such a move now… I surmise these deeds may not be of their own initiative."

"You think they're working for somebody else?"

"I doubt it is so… one-directional," Shun said. "The societies have much pride. There is undoubtedly an element of reciprocity at work here, of mutual benefit."

"Fabbro," said Xiao Ma. "An alliance of convenience, perhaps?"

"Perhaps. We must discover which of the societies this is."

"I think I can help with that," Wu said. "It may interest you that the Two Dragon Society's favored assassin just checked into the Continental this morning."

"The Two Dragon Society." Shun's lip twisted in a sneer. "Imperialist dogs."

"It'd be a hell of a coincidence."

"Just so. Two Dragon has always been far more interested in affairs of their island than so far abroad. For them to invest in the game in New York… uncharacteristic."

"Is it?" Xiao Ma broke in. "You are thinking in terms of business. When have they ever baulked at killing Chinese?"

"Rarely," Shun admitted. "But we ought not think of them as rabid dogs, ruled merely by instinct."

The corner of Xiao Ma's lip twitched. "No," she said after a moment. "That would be too arrogant."

"Do not worry." Shun gave her a quick, grim smile. "Your ancestors will be avenged."

"I assume that's where I come in," said Wu.

"The East Village. That is where any Japanese holdings would be. Sending in Silver Mountain brothers would be a provocation."

"And attacking multiple locations isn't?"

"I do not mean here," Shun said, shaking his head. "Overseas."

"You're worried about sparking a wider conflict?"

Shun nodded. "Xiao Ma is correct. The Japanese bastards have always been eager to seize upon any excuse to attack us. So sending sworn brothers would be problematic."

"How convenient for you that I'm not one," said Wu.

"Precisely. You will go to the East Village. See what may be discovered. Strike back. Not recklessly, mind. Carnage too wanton could still… overflow from this city."

"Understood." Wu stepped back from the map and turned towards the exit.

"Of course, it needn't be too neat either."

* * *

The meeting was to be held in, of all places, a hair salon. The bold and bright Japanese characters outside led to an immaculately clean interior, with a row of swiveling seats before one mirrored wall. The sharply groomed, middle-aged Japanese man at the front podium bowed to her when Rizzi entered. "Welcome. Have you an appointment?"

She held up one fist, opened it enough to reveal the gold coin clenched within. "I'm here for a meeting. It was a late appointment, unfortunately."

"Of course." The man gave her another bow and swept an arm towards the rear. "Please, follow me."

He led her to the back, unlocked a door of wrought iron, and pushed it open. "Thanks," Susan said, stepping through.

The doorway led through to a spartan rectangular room, lit from above with a single rectangular table in the center. Several men in business suits lounged or stood around, conversing quietly in Japanese. The chatter died down as she entered. Cool stares greeted her; not exactly hostile, but a far cry from being welcoming. The closest said something to her in Japanese that she couldn't understand.

"Do not be disrespectful," said another accented voice. The speaker rose from the head of the table and approached her; he was a lean Japanese man with a trimmed goatee. "You are here on behalf of Mister Fabbro?"

'I am."

The man – the professional, if she judged rightly – gave her a respectful nod. "I am Hirawa Tokayushi."

"Susan Rizzi."

Another nod. "Your name is known to me, Rizzi- _san._ Your work is commendable."

Not quite the term she might have chosen to describe her career. This guy… Hirawa Tokayushi… The name clicked into place. "So Fabbro reached out to the Two Dragon Society."

"That is correct. Understand that we have not entered a relationship of servitude. This is an arrangement of mutual benefit." He motioned towards the table. "But that is a topic to discuss in a moment. Please."

Rizzi walked over and sat down, waited as Hirawa circled back and reassumed his seat. "Fabbro sends his regards about the attacks last night."

Hirawa nodded but said nothing else. Rizzi got the impression that he would rather have been elsewhere – fair enough.

"So," she said, "do you mind if I ask what the Two Dragon Society hopes to get out of all this?"

"We have little interest in this degenerate city," he said. "But the Silver Mountain's reach in Asia grows, along with their arrogance. We must take measures to curb such excesses."

"I see." She folded her hands together. "Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but this degenerate city has a whole lot going on. Your exploits yesterday made the news."

"We struck a multitude of locations. Such a thing is not subtle."

"No, but it could have been less blatant. Setting fire to a bunch of places is going to attract unnecessary attention. Just something for consideration."

Hirawa's face darkened. "Our purposes may be aligned with Marco Fabbro's at the moment, but I remind you that we are not his lackeys. We will use what methods as we see fit."

"If you want to. I'm just saying, you'll be making things harder for yourselves-" Rizzi broke off as somebody's phone rang. It belonged to one of the men sitting to her right side at the table.

He stepped away from the table, speaking quietly into the device, then walked swiftly to Hirawa's side. Another rapid exchange of Japanese followed. Hirawa spoke sharply to the others, who stood and moved for the door.

"What's going on?" Rizzi asked.

"We are under attack," Hirawa said. "A block away."

She loosened the pistol in her holster. "Let's go."

* * *

Moving with the rest of the Two Dragon men in a loose spread, Rizzi heard the shouts and screams from up ahead – and the roar of an engine revving up. The roar grew louder and she instinctively stepped to the side as a car barreled down the street. She caught a glimpse of Wu's features at the wheel; just enough to make out the grim focus on his face, before the car rushed past. Hirawa turned, tracking the car as he raised a pistol from within his suit.

Rizzi grabbed his wrist and forced it down, hoping the scattering pedestrians hadn't noticed. "Easy," she said. "You go firing off shots in the middle of the street now and you'll just get the police coming down hard."

Hirawa glared at her for a moment. "That mongrel," he said, "is known to us. He is the Silver Mountain's response, but he knows no loyalty. Master-less and without cause." He sneered and turned back forward. "Let us see what he has done."

Wu evidently had hit a sushi restaurant, an unremarkable one that didn't stand out in any way from the outside. That must have been a deliberate cultivation; Rizzi got more than a few cautious glares from the staff inside until Hirawa spoke to them. Then they brought them through the back, beyond the kitchen smelling of fresh fish and to what looked like a large freezer door. That turned out to be misleading: past the door was a room with bills of various currencies stacked upon a small table while pistols and submachine guns hung from the walls. The far end had several computer systems lined up together.

A trio of dead men lay sprawled around the room. One had died at the computers, hands still at a keyboard. Another had left a trail of blood streaking down the wall of weapons, reaching out fruitlessly for one of the guns. The last lay just inside the doorway, his eyes widened in surprise and bracketing the hole through his forehead. One of the Two Dragon men was already on the phone with the cleaners.

Hirawa looked down at the scene for a moment, and then turned away. Rizzi sighed, followed him. "Come with us," he said to her once they'd left the restaurant. "Bear witness."

"What are you doing?"

"No blow shall go unanswered," he declared. "We will strike back at once."

That, Susan thought, sounded like a great way to escalate things. But Hirawa had that kind of zealous intensity that seemed to be perpetually on the edge of boiling over, and she was supposed to be here representing Fabbro. Antagonizing him seemed a poor way to start things off. So she nodded and followed as Hirawa gave another series of orders in Japanese to the man beside him.

Outside a slick black car rolled up to the curbside. "Get in," Hirawa said, opening the rear door.

Rizzi climbed in, slid to the far seat, and watched as Hirawa got in after her. Another Yakuza man dropped into the passenger seat; the car took off before the door had completely shut, pulling into the New York traffic with reckless aplomb. They were heading for Chinatown. She suppressed a groan. Hirawa gave more directions to the driver, who nodded and replied with no small deference.

Eventually the car came to a halt, drawing up before a dim sum place. _Well, shit._ This was known as a place that paid protection money to the Silver Mountain. "I would ask you to remain in the car," Hirawa said. "Honor demands I satisfy this myself."

"Alright, just don't make this-"

Rizzi broke off as the man in front passed a stubby, semi-automatic shotgun with a fat drum magazine back to Hirawa. Her eyes widened; he stepped out of the car, walked over to the restaurant entrance, and kicked the door in.

She barely got her hands clamped over her ears before a series of ear-rattling blasts shattered the air. The screaming followed a second later. Hirawa returned to the car, tossed the shotgun in beside her, and hopped in. He nodded at the driver and the car surged forward again.

Rizzi kept watch out her window for any sign of pursuit – legal or otherwise. Once she felt reasonably certain that they were clear she turned back to Hirawa. The Japanese assassin looked no more rattled than if he'd just ordered a cup of tea. He returned her glare with an expression of mild disinterest.

"Let's get one thing clear right now," Susan said.

"And what might that be?" Hirawa said.

"If you ever drag me into a massacre of innocents again, I'll kill you."

He sneered at her. "Will you?" She matched his cold stare for a moment. From the corner of her eye the passenger in front twisted in his seat, bringing a nickeled handgun to bear on her.

Rizzi glanced over at the gunman, then rolled her eyes back to Hirawa. His reptilian gaze betrayed only mild amusement. She lunged forward with her arms, seized the passenger's wrist, and twisted the gun out of his hand in a single motion. Dumping the magazine, Rizzi racked the slide and locked it back before slapping the emptied firearm back into his hand with a cold smile on her face. Hirawa held up one hand and spoke to the man, his tone calm.

"Are we clear?" Rizzi said.

Another moment passed, and Rizzi began planning out how she'd take the rest of the car out. Her seat left her in a poor position to get to her pistol immediately; she could reach her blade with little issue though. Hirawa first: he was the most immediate threat. That would buy her the time and space to get to her gun. Then the people in the front. Not that killing the driver of a vehicle she was currently inside was her preference, but some things couldn't be helped.

She felt that eerie calm that settled into her limbs, that juxtaposition with her heartrate speeding up when knew the moment before everything went straight to hell-

Hirawa chuckled quietly and nodded at her. "You make your point clear, Rizzi- _san._ Very well, I shall exclude you from such things. I hadn't realized you held such distaste for these things."

"There was nothing clean or professional about that," she replied. "You're just going off half-cocked on some bullshit revenge killing. Leave me out of that."

"As you wish." He gave her another nod. "I see why Fabbro- _san_ sent you. Perhaps we can work well together after all."

Rizzi nodded back once. She thought back to Hirawa strolling up to the restaurant and emptying a shotgun.

 _Don't count on it._

* * *

Later, she stood on the street outside of Fabbro's building for a long while, watching the sky darken and feeling the bite of the wind on her face. It was cold enough now that she could see her breath mist into the air, and she enjoyed the peace and quiet – well, as much as it ever got peaceful and quiet in this city, anyway.

Finally she stepped inside, nodded to the now-familiar door security, and headed to the private elevator that conveyed her to Fabbro's penthouse. She went through the typical security procedure and moved to the business chamber.

Fabbro sat at the head of the table, chin cupped in one hand while he stared into the distance. Rizzi glanced around; Edmondo and Tracitus were absent. She cleared her throat. Fabbro swiveled his head towards her. "Took your time."

"Got a little sidetracked," she said. "The guy that Two Dragon sent is certainly… proactive."

"Heh." He waved her to a seat. "You think you can work with them?"

"If I have to. I'm unconvinced that pulling the Yakuza into this will end well for anybody involved. There's a lot of cultural baggage on both sides, and entanglements outside of New York."

"Yeah. About that…" He slid a rolled-up scroll across the table towards her.

Susan picked it up; heavy like genuine vellum and gilded, with ornate scrollwork around the edges. The dark maroon wax seal adhering it had been broken, but still recognizable. Arching an eyebrow at Fabbro, she unrolled the scroll and began reading. "Wow." She looked back up at him when she'd finished. "Did they send this to everybody?"

"Far as we can tell so far. Edmondo's making inquiries, but it seems they want everybody to meet. It's almost like a goddamn peace conference."

"Not like them to get involved this way," Rizzi said.

"Yeah." Fabbro grimaced. "Not a good time for it either."

She handed the scroll back to him. "You _are_ going to attend, right?"

"Sure. Making the arrangements. I'm not thrilled about it."

"But it's-"

"I know." Fabbro sighed and slapped the scroll against his palm. "It's the Bazaar."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

The masters of the Bazaar had set the meeting for three days hence. Not a great deal of time for the various warring parties to set their affairs aside, but then the Bazaar had always danced to its own tune. The underworld saw a lull in its conflicts during that time; Susan wondered how much of it was a desire to not antagonize the Bazaar and how much just raw curiosity at its rare intervention. Either way, the collective pause gave her a chance to rest – and realize the toll on her body since the whole bloody thing began.

It also gave her a reprieve from Hirawa and the Two Dragon Society. She knew he was staying at the Continental, but he was singularly insular. Not that she minded. Fabbro's erstwhile allies seemed to be in it as much for just killing Silver Mountain as anything else.

So here they were now the day of the meeting, in one of the safe rooms that Fabbro owned. A mid-tiered apartment, the inside had been converted to an impromptu arming chamber. Guns of various makes, all of them on the wrong side of the law, hung off the walls and sat on beaten metal tables. The sharp scent of gun oil and solvent hung in the air.

Fabbro adjusted the fit of his suit, tugging at the lapels so they hid the bulge of the ballistic vest beneath his shirt more. A group of his men stood close by, fitting on their own body armor and making weapon checks. Tony loaded up a little sub-gun with a folding stock and tucked it away within his suit, its compact frame disappearing beneath black fabric. "Boss," he said, handing Fabbro a customized Italian pistol. Edmondo holstered a compact pistol of his own, smoothing the lines of his suit over.

Tracitus examined a Desert Eagle before tucking it away in his waistband. "Not even the biggest thing in my pants," he said, winking at Rizzi.

"It's not wise to go to the Bazaar with too much," she said.

"They're fooling themselves if they think anybody is showing up unarmed," said Fabbro.

"Unarmed, no," said Susan, nodding towards the back of the room. "But you may not want to show up with a SAW."

Fabbro turned to face the man cradling the light machine gun. "Horace, leave it."

"But boss, she's served us well!"

"She won't serve us so well if we get turned away at the door. Leave it."

"Why do we gotta play by their rules?" Horace said, setting the machine gun back down on a crowded table.

"Because the Bazaar is very particular about their etiquette and their neutrality," said Rizzi. "And they hold enough purse strings that it's worth abiding by their rules."

"She's right," Fabbro said, his face sour. "They're kind of a big deal, so everybody be on your best behavior. Don't any of you embarrass me."

A flurry of acknowledgments answered Fabbro and he bared his teeth in a fierce grin.

"Just follow their rules and be polite," Rizzi said. "They're pretty relaxed otherwise."

"Anything in particular we should know?" one of Fabbro's men – Enrico, if she remembered – asked.

"Behave like you would at the Continental," she said. "No business, except on their terms, and keep it civil."

"And if we don't?" said Tracitus.

"You hear about Perkins?"

He gave a confused shrug and shook his head.

"One of us," said Rizzi. "Tried to fulfill a contract at the Continental. Got a quartet of bullets to the head for her trouble." _And good riddance,_ she thought. Perkins had been a Grade-A bitch.

"Alright?"

"The Bazaar won't be that kind."

"Sounds like you got some experience with them, huh?" said Fabbro.

"You didn't think I got all my gear from the local Walmart?"

He chuckled. "Only the best for you, huh, doll?"

"There's very little they can't get their hands on," Rizzi said, tugging her flower coat tighter around herself. It wasn't her professional wear by any means, but the Bazaar wasn't the place for their kind of business. It was, however, a place where appearances mattered.

"Too true." Fabbro adjusted his breast pin. "Alright, enough chatter. Let's go underground."

* * *

Tiger Shun brushed a hand down his classically styled Chinese suit, sweeping away imaginary lint. Chou Yu and several others laid out pistols and their attendant magazines. Eighth Tiger examined several of them before picking one and tucking it away. This Silver Mountain armory looked more like a jewelry room, with clean tools and immaculate surfaces. It lay several floors beneath Shun's penthouse. Wu wondered if it was always like this or if it had been specially prepare for the Eighth Tiger's visit.

And speaking of jewelry… standing like Wu, slightly apart from the others, Xiao Ma fixed a pair of earrings into place. She drew her plaited hair back to expose the lines of her neck with one hand, and held a silver necklace towards Elijah with the other. "Do you mind, Wu- _cike_?"

"Not at all." Stepping around behind her, he strung the necklace around Xiao Ma's neck and worked the clasp.

"I assume you are familiar with the Bazaar?" she said, brushing her hair back into place and turning to face him.

"Not so much with the branch here," he admitted. "However," he tapped the pommel of the sword belted openly at his side, "we have had dealings more than once before."

"Yes, I expect so." She eyed the hilt of the sword. "In the style of the Song Dynasty, I see. Is it authentic?"

"A replica," he said. "Original Dragon Spring steel is too precious for field use these days."

"Indeed." Xiao Ma reached out a hand, stroking the hilt and pommel with her fingertips. The action sent a twinge of discomfort down Elijah's back, like some odd, unearned intimacy. He fought down the urge to step back. "It seems a fine piece nonetheless."

"It gets the job done."

"More than that, I think. You could have gone with a plain length of steel were that the only thing you valued. You chose a sword like this for a reason."

"Perhaps I did." Wu looked past her to where the Silver Mountain members loaded weapons and stowed them away beneath suit jackets. "You should think about your own piece."

"Already done."

"Really?" He considered her skin-hugging _qipao_. "That's impressive."

"Would you like to search me?"

"That won't be necessary."

"Whereas you wear your sword openly for this." She eyed him with idle curiosity. "Why?"

"The Bazaar enforcers know people will be packing. Better to be upfront about some things. They place a certain value on openness – within their premises, of course."

"A gesture of respect, is it?"

Wu nodded. "Any organization with their influence is not to be trifled with."

"Wu - _cike_ speaks rightly," said Tiger Shun, looking around at his men. "We are their guests at this gathering. Conduct yourselves accordingly." He nodded to the door and started forward, leading the way with a brisk pace. "The other heads will meet us at the Bazaar." Xiao Ma fell into place a step behind him to the right, her heels clicking against the floor. The Silver Mountain entourage scrambled into position as Wu adjusted his coat and followed. Shun beckoned him close with a hand. "I have little trust in the barbarians," he said once Wu leaned in. "Be alert for all things once we are inside."

* * *

The unused subway tunnel flickered with dim lighting and drops of moisture ran down the dingy concrete walls. Distant noises echoed from somewhere up ahead, verifying they were heading the right way. Rizzi prowled the shadows ahead of Fabbro's pack, checking for any threats or signs of ambush. While the Bazaar demanded strict neutrality and truces within the meeting grounds, the approaches were no guarantee. And while nobody wanted to be caught breaking the spirit of the rule, still better safe than sorry.

Leading the way, Rizzi swept long-unused tunnel openings, hand clenched on her pistol's grip as she cleared nooks and crannies. Every so often the tunnels rumbled as subway cars passed by somewhere overhead. The further they got from the subway station the brighter the lights grew, further confirmation that they were on the right path.

The change in the smell was the big indicator. The musty stale odors of subterranean city tunnels gave way gradually to a sharp, spicy scent in the air, like a mix of pepper, saffron, and cinnamon. Old rumor held that the Bazaar had its roots in the ancient Byzantine Empire. The masters of the secretive organization seemed to enjoy playing that angle, and no matter the location in the world the scent remained the same, like it came from some exotic marketplace out of the romantic past.

Yet that was only one indication of their proximity to the Bazaar.

Rizzi came to a halt before a closed steel door that sectioned off the tunnel. A small security camera nested in the corner above it, tiny red light on the front blinking periodically. She looked up at it but kept a respectful distance, back behind a scored line cutting across the tunnel three meters from the door. She nodded politely at the camera and looked back, waiting for Fabbro and his men. They streamed out from the tunnel; Tony walked towards the door and Rizzi held a hand up. "Hold it. Don't cross that line."

"Why the hell not?" he said. "They wanted us here."

"The Bazaar prefers to walk its guests in. They're not fond of people just strolling in." She looked at Fabbro. "Do you want to, or should I?"

He sighed. "I'll do it." Fabbro dug a small tube holder from his coat pocket and slid a gold coin from it. He held it up towards the camera for several seconds, then returned it all to his pocket. "Old rituals," he grumbled. "Waste of time."

"Certain forms must be observed," Rizzi said.

"Outdated," Fabbro muttered, but he appeared to relax as he turned towards the sealed door.

Several moments passed before the door clicked and swung open inwards. A lone man in a dark suit and crimson tie stood on the other side, his face hidden by a plain white mask with the characteristic grin of dramatic Comedy. He bowed at the waist with a flourish, and then straightened. "Make yourself known, please," he said in clean, cultured accent.

"You're kidding, right?" Fabbro held up the invitation scroll. "You know who I am."

"Please, honored guest. A formality for the record."

"I'm Marco Fabbro. Can we get this over with?"

The lone man seemed unfazed. "And do you and your party agree to abide by the standing rules of the Bazaar for the duration of your time here?"

"Yes, of course."

Then the man turned to Rizzi. "And yourself?"

She blinked. "I'm with them."

"At present, certainly. You are known to the Bazaar from past dealings, Miss Rizzi. A formality, you understand."

"Of course." Rizzi held her hands up before her shoulders, palms up towards the tunnel ceiling. "I declare my arms peace-bonded, and I will give no provocation to the Bazaar's guests."

The man's head tilted forward in a nod. "Most excellent." He panned his gaze over the assembled party. "The Bazaar welcomes you, honored guests. Your coin is good here. Follow me, please."

Without further ado the Bazaar's ambassador spun on his heel and stepped back into the dark tunnel, moving to one side and sweeping an arm down its length in invitation. Rizzi stepped through the doorway and stopped, making room for the others. Fabbro joined her, the impatience clear on his face, and his men followed suit. The Bazaar man swung the metal door shut with a whisper of well-oiled hinges and locked it with a resounding thud. That cut off the brighter lights from the outer tunnel, leaving them in darkness with only the pinprick glows of tiny lights overhead in distant intervals like the guide lights of a runway at midnight.

"This way, please." Their guide's white mask practically glowed in the darkness as he moved past and started down the tunnel.

Rizzi's other senses came to the forefront as they walked along the tunnel. Their footsteps echoed and blended with faint sounds from up ahead: the din that accompanied any sizable gathering of people. The spicy-sweet scent filled her nostrils. Tony, Tracitus, and the others muttered among themselves, clearly unhappy with the ritualistic entrance. She didn't blame them; the back of her neck crawled, the sense of being watched heavy in the air. Not surprising – the darkness undoubtedly concealed guards in nooks or offshoot tunnels. Night-vision equipped, almost certainly. She wasn't sure how far they walked – there was little in the way of visual hints, but she suspected it couldn't have been more than a quarter mile. The tunnel terminated at another metal door, also unmarked but clearly well-maintained. The noises of dozens of conversations came through it. Their guide slipped a key from his pocket, inserted it through the lock, and then tugged the door open.

Light and noise flooded in like water from a ruptured dam. The party stepped through and Rizzi looked back to give their guide a nod of thanks. He returned the gesture, then closed the door behind them.

They'd stepped into another world. Living up to the Bazaar's name, brightly lit stalls packed the cavernous space before them, hung and draped with diaphanous cloths separating each unit from the other. A quick glance revealed an array of goods and services on display, from Damascene steel scimitars and shiatsu massages to cutting-edge prototype firearms from a half-dozen manufacturers and finger foods to cases of fine wines. Men and women crowded the space, strolling along the rows created by the stall arrangements: browsing, haggling, and generally conversing as mutual acquaintances encountered one another on neutral ground.

Another look revealed the thick concrete pillars running up to the darkness overhead, and the layout it was all based upon. An old unused subway station, one of those built in the frenzies of growth New York had experienced in the previous century. Forgotten and abandoned, it appeared the Bazaar had moved in and repurposed the space, lending it a kind of illegitimate life.

Rizzi felt the tension in the air despite the Bazaar's neutrality; nearly all of the underworld factions currently trying to carve out their slice of the city had some kind of presence here. She scanned the crowd, looking for any potential threats – of which there were many. Troubleshooters and heavies from around the world made up a large part of the crowd, while the highly ranked from a half-dozen organizations wandered with their bodyguards and retainers. Were it not for the masked guards spread throughout the crowd she suspected the scene would swiftly turn bloody, agreed rules of neutrality be damned.

Fabbro nudged her elbow and leaned in. "We have that meeting – but you aren't required. Let's put that to use, huh?"

"What did you have in mind?" Rizzi said over the din of the crowd.

"It might be better if you weren't there. Why don't you wander the place, keep an eye and ear out?"

"Espionage isn't-"

"Nobody's asking you to pry, doll. There's no breaking the rules if you happen to overhear something, huh? Buy yourself something nice, it's all on the up and up. Women love to shop. Who am I to get in the way of that, huh?"

Rizzi rolled her eyes. "Right."

She'd just turned away when Fabbro grabbed her arm. "And don't go spreading the word that you're working for me, huh?"

"Don't worry," she said. "I do know how it works."

"Sure, sure." Fabbro nodded absently as he looked around and seemed to find his destination. "Okay, doll. Go mingle."

* * *

Susan wandered the cavern market of the Bazaar. Small, warm lights had been strung between the pillars, while larger globes hung from the dimness of the ceiling above. Rather than being the sort of harsh industrial lighting one might have expected, the glow of the inverted domes presented a reasonable facsimile of sunlight. She watched and listened; assassins haggled over bargains with arms dealers, the wealthy and connected elite browsed stalls of restricted merchandise from around the world, and the gilded veneer of friendly, insincere conversations overlaid it all.

Despite all that, she'd always enjoyed visiting the Bazaar. The surreal environs always transported her elsewhere, and for all the staff's quirks like their ubiquitous masks from various cultures and time periods around the world, they were unfailingly courteous. An endless array of fantastic goods greeted every sense while vendors called out to passersby. Susan walked past one tent-like stall with an assortment of smuggled ivory, another with linens of all sizes and shapes, and started past a stall with long guns laid out in neat rows.

The man at the stall had a slick three-piece suit and enough product in his hair to support a skyscraper. The smooth sales air he gave off contracted wholly with the oversized automatic shotgun in his hands. He looked at Rizzi with a white smile that promised the world. "Madam, you look like you need the latest and greatest in personal firepower advances!" He hefted the shotgun for her inspection.

Rizzi laughed gently and shook her head. "I really don't."

"Whoa there! You got the look of a professional about you, somebody who appreciates a fine weapon. This beauty here is the Origin-12. Short piston-operated, semi-automatic 12-gauge. Magazine fed, everything from five round boxes to eight and ten round mags, up to fifteen and twenty round drums, when you really need to bring the firepower! Takes everything from birdshot to slugs and cycles it all with this proprietary gas pressure valve you can adjust in the-"

Rizzi held a hand up to cut him off. "Spare me the sales pitch. There's no way that thing is practical, especially for operating in the city. What am I supposed to do – walk around Manhattan carrying that thing? It's half my height!"

"And offers unprecedented firepower for the size! Limited time offer – two free drum magazines included with any purchase! Loaded with buck or slug, you'll hold the last word in any confrontation."

"I don't need a shotgun."

"Whoa there, this is no mere shotgun. _This_ is an advanced weapon system, a platform of power projection!"

At that Rizzi burst into laughter. "It's not a missile cruiser." She turned away.

"You drive a hard bargain, madam. All right. I'll throw in two boxes of the latest flechettes rounds. Tungsten darts, guaranteed to-"

"No thank you," she called back, still walking away.

She'd only made it another stall's distance from the overeager vendor when a now-familiar voice interjected. "What do you have against shotguns?"

Rizzi snapped her gaze over to see Elijah Wu leaning out of a market stall, a sloppy grin plastered on his face. He wore his long coat with no effort to conceal the sword at his waist. "What are you doing here?"

He glanced her over for a moment. "The same thing as you, I suspect. The Bazaar's masters – the local management, at any rate, seem concerned about recent events."

"I take it Eighth Tiger received an invitation."

Wu nodded. "From your expression, I take it Fabbro did too. Seems like they're trying to arrange a truce of some kind."

"Good luck. Let's hope everybody's got enough self-control to not piss off the Bazaar."

"That would be good." Wu glanced around. "I'm sure we're both peace-bonded, but I should warn you, duty probably demands I keep an eye on your movements while we're here." The twinkle in his eyes revealed his intent, and Susan found herself returning his grin.

"Likewise, I'm sure," she said. "And perhaps to clear the various wares on offer?"

"A mobile inspection, then?" He gestured down the busy row of stalls. "After you."

"Oh, I couldn't. After you, I insist."

"Ladies first."

"What makes you think I am one?"

Wu opened his mouth, closed it, and then nodded. "Touché. Together, then?"

"That would be acceptable," Susan said as imperiously as she could. They set off at a stroll and she eyed stalls and clientele alike, glancing between movers, shakers, and killers to the wares they browed – assault rifle mods and accessories, ivory scrimshaw, fine clothing, leather whips.

"So, what do you have against shotguns?" Elijah said at her side.

"Ha!" She shook her head. "Did you see that thing?"

"I did. Impressive piece of hardware."

"Sure, maybe if you want to mount it on an armored vehicle. The rest of us have to deal with reality."

"We _are_ strolling through a nigh-mythical black market that has its roots in the old Silk Road, in an off-the-grid subway station beneath Manhattan."

"That's perfectly normal," replied Susan, glancing at an array of sheer lingerie modeled by bored-looking young women circling a stall. There was no way some – or most – of it was meant to be slept in, or worn for any kind of practical purpose. "I thought the Bazaar was from the Byzantine Empire? No matter – the point is that nobody could reasonably cart that thing around and be subtle about it." She looked over at Wu, who'd been staring at her with an amused expression. "Of course, I _am_ talking to somebody who's carrying around a sword in the twenty-first century."

"That's perfectly normal."

"Sure it is. Look, how would you infiltrate… _anywhere_ carrying that sucker?"

"Through the front door? With a double load of ammo, of course."

"That's not infiltration."

He scratched at his cheek. "Does it matter if the job gets done in the end?"

Rizzi scrunched her face up. "Yes."

"Hmm. How so?" His expression carried honest curiosity.

She stared at him for a long moment, wondering if she should get into it… "Because we're not _thugs,_ " Susan said. "We are… polite."

"We murder for a living," Elijah said quietly. "Are you so sure about that?"

"We render services of… a specific demand," Susan responded. "We don't bomb restaurants in the hope that one target gets caught in the blast. We don't mow down a crowd of bystanders to fulfil a contract on a solitary man. We are _professional_ about what we do. We _abide_ by a code, a certain order of _how things are done._ "

"This matters to you."

"I won't ever argue that what we do is good, or pleasant, or that we're not damning ourselves in the eyes of some higher power."

"But?"

"But that doesn't mean we can't minimize the horror and evil we inflict. We have enough blood on our hands: why soak them more if we don't need to?"

"I see."

They walked on a little further in silence, during which Susan inspected a booth of various pistol optics. Finally she glanced at Elijah. "What do you think?" she asked, wondering as she did so why it mattered to her.

He didn't answer for a moment, merely fiddled with a little red dot sight before setting it back in place. He met her gaze. "One of my earliest jobs was to eliminate a fixer for the Seven Clouds Fraternity," he began. "Him – and his family. A message. I went to his house in the middle of the night. I shot him. He was in the kitchen, cutting up a watermelon. And then his wife, in the living room. She heard the noise, thought he'd dropped the melon and was laughing about it. Never saw me. And they had a daughter, maybe two or three years old at the time."

He paused. Susan stared at him, but Wu's gaze was far, far away. Echoes of horrified, long-buried guilt wracked his face. She recognized it, for she'd seen it in her own reflection in quiet, unguarded moments. "What did you do?"

"I couldn't pull the trigger." His words came out in a quiet rush now, forcing her to step closer to hear him over the other conversations in the space. "I smuggled her out, to an orphanage in Israel. Set up a fund for her using the payment from the job. And with the deposit a sealed letter explaining what happened to her parents and why she ended up in Israel."

"Why?"

"So she'll have a way to contact me one day."

Susan blinked. "And she would do that because?"

"I also left her a pistol in the box. When she comes of age, she deserves a chance for retribution. And I deserve to answer for what I've done."

"I see," she said. "That is… incredibly fucked up."

"Yes, I suppose it is. But then, so are we."

"This is true. So you're… what? Waiting for her to kill you one day?"

"If she wants to," Elijah said. "We're all living on borrowed time anyways."

"Yeah." Susan cocked her head to the side. "That's one way to look at it."

"Is there a better way?" he wondered quietly, stepping away from the stall.

Susan followed in his wake. "I don't know. That might be something a person can only answer for themselves."

Elijah halted suddenly. "I just realized you're the first person I've told that story to," he said. "I don't know why."

"That you told me?" Susan said. "Well that's easy enough. You don't have to live with me. Hell, one of us is probably going to kill the other before this is through. So your secret's safe either way."

"Good point." Elijah grinned as they walked on. "I trust that answers your question?"

She stared at him; that glimpse she'd seen – of vulnerability, of honesty – now seemed locked away again, hidden behind a veneer of congenial charm. Not that she blamed him. She still didn't know what had possessed her to pry like that. Some things you just didn't talk about in this life. Susan nodded and changed the subject. "So, have you seen anything interesting here?"

Elijah's grin grew wider. "Besides shotguns, you mean?"

Susan rolled her eyes but matched his grin. "Besides shotguns."

"There was a knife collection this way. Might be of interest."

"Oh, lead on."

Elijah navigated through the crowds to a stall comprised of diaphanous gray silk like sheets of sheer silver. Tables of blades stood beneath it, everything from ivory-handled hunting knives to machetes to curving tulwars on display beneath gentle white lights. He browsed through an array of long blades while Susan looked through the short ones.

Her eyes fell on one blade in particular. "Oh. Hello, beautiful."

The stall proprietor, a mocha-skinned, bearded man, drifted over. "Ah, a fine choice. Limited edition, and quite rare now."

"May I?" Susan gestured to the knife.

"Please!" The man gestured at her with both hands. "Such a fine specimen deserves to dance in the hand."

"What's this?" Elijah said, moving over. "A balisong?"

"A Specter. These _are_ hard to find." Susan flicked the latch holding the handles closed with her pinky, felt it swing out with a satisfying pop and twirled the butterfly knife through a basic opening flip. She felt her eyes widen; the balance on it was exceptional. She flipped it through the air, caught it in a reverse grip, and worked the blade through a latch drop deployment.

"Impressive," Elijah said.

A sudden jolt of self-consciousness ran through her. Rizzi set the knife back down on the table and stepped back, mentally chastising herself. Showing off wasn't a good idea, especially against a potential target.

"I didn't know you were so into balisongs," he said.

"A passing fancy," Susan replied.

"May I interest you in the blade?" the proprietor sked. "You demonstrate quite the affinity with it."

Susan hesitated. "It's really tempting… but I'm afraid I just don't really need a new knife right now."

"I understand. Rampant collecting is a hard thing to control."

"Yes it is."

The proprietor bowed at the waist and adjusted his impeccable white gloves. "I'll hold one in reserve should you change your mind."

Susan chuckled. "Seriously, don't tempt me."

"As you wish," he said with a good-natured smile.

They left the stall, Susan pulling herself away before she changed her mind. Other stalls passed as they walked, spaces crowded with jewelry, weapons, even small animals ranging from puppies to gerbils.

"Want to grab a bite?" Elijah nodded at another row of stalls nearby, where foods from around the world filled the air with a variety of aromas.

"Sure." Strolling through the food stalls, they picked out some finger foods. Elijah came away with a paper cone of freshly fried falafel, steam wafting into the air. Susan checked out a little Belgian stall, considered the frites fried in genuine horse fat, and settled for a waffle instead: true gauffre style with the little beads of pearl sugar. The outer shell of it broke with a gentle crackle, exposing a soft interior. She bit in with relish, savoring the gentle doughy sweetness. Wonderful.

Elijah held his cone out towards her in a silent offer and she reciprocated by breaking off a chunk of the waffle. He glanced around as he chewed. "Do you think anything will come of this meeting?"

"The Bazaar's conference, you mean?" Susan shrugged. "Honestly, I doubt it."

"Why's that?"

"Power. I think the families and societies are so hungry for it now that they don't give a damn. And I have a suspicion it's more than just business now, it's personal. There's no controlling people once it gets to that point."

Elijah frowned. "You think so? What about the rules and the conduct agreements? We all follow those."

"Not everybody," Susan replied, thinking of Perkins' attempt on Wick's life at the Continental.

"Enough do that the system works."

"Mostly." She took another bite of the waffle, chewed it as she thought. "I think part of that is because these rules are… internally focused. They're about conduct on the premises."

"I follow that." He nodded. "Like a restaurant requiring shirt and shoes for service. But with more bullets for breaking the rules."

Susan's lips twitched upwards in a grin. "You've obviously never dined at Grospierre's."

"Do you need a ballistic vest for using the wrong fork?"

"And you'd better line it with level three plates if you chew with your mouth open. God help you if you get the wrong wine pairing. I'm pretty sure the sommelier keeps an anti-materiel rifle in the back."

Elijah chuckled. "Sounds like a blast."

"The food's worth it," she said. "Anyway, my point was that the rules for neutral ground work because they're restricted to what happens there. They don't interfere with the world outside their premises, not directly."

"And you think attempts to do so will fail."

"I think entrenched groups are loathe to go give up power and influence, and I don't think the Bazaar really wants to plunge themselves into this fight if push comes to shove. They may be trying to smooth things over, but it's not like their survival is at stake here. The system will endure."

"And dance on our bones after we're gone?"

"Well, you know the game," Susan said. "Sooner or later you meet your match. Or more than your match."

"Yes, you do." Elijah eyed her for a moment, an inscrutable look on his face. "And I guess depending on the way these talks go, we'll find out about each other."

"Yes, we will." She broke off a last chunk of waffle and held it out to him. She watched him eat, and stepped back as Tracitus walked by. Shouldn't he have been at the meeting? He didn't seem to notice her, fixated as he was on one stall packed with scantily dressed girls being auctioned off. Susan turned her back on him and crossed her arms. "You know, this could get messy if our respective groups meet on the way out of the Bazaar."

"Yeah." Elijah ran a hand over his chin. "I'd rather take today off, if you know what I mean. Look, I'll delay the Silver Mountain departure. You try to get Fabbro and his men out first."

"And how do you plan to do that?" Susan asked.

"I'll come up with something." Elijah shrugged, looking around at the Bazaar.

"This isn't going to be like your 'distraction' at the Midnight Club, is it?"

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?"

"I'm pretty sure the Bazaar's security is on another level. You're going to get executed fast if you try anything."

"Well I never said I'd do exactly that. No drunken idiots trying to cop a feel either."

"Thank heaven for small favors," Susan said.

"I'll probably come up with an excuse to do some shopping," Elijah said. "Should be easy enough to do here."

"Shopping? Really?"

"There's lots of interesting stuff here."

"Right." Susan glanced around at the crowd; it was growing denser, and she caught sight of another of Fabbro's men – one that had headed off with him when they'd arrived. "Heads up. Looks like the talks might be over."

"That was fast."

"I'm guessing because no agreements were made."

"That seems likely."

"I'd better clear out," Susan said. "Find Fabbro and get him to clear out before something happens."

"Yeah." Elijah stepped back. "Catch you later at the Continental?"

"If we're still alive, sure." She found herself grinning despite her own efforts. _This is a bad idea._

He returned the grin. "Stay out of trouble."

"Likewise." On a sudden impulse, she reached out and took his hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. Turning away, she headed off to find Fabbro, feeling the force of the other assassin's gaze all the while.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

"So," Rizzi said once they'd all returned to Fabbro's penthouse, "I assume the talks went poorly."

Not that it had been hard to deduce; Fabbro's demeanor had been like a storm building up to critical mass the whole journey back. "Those nosy pricks," he rumbled. "Way out of touch with the real world, and they got the stones to think _they_ know what's best? Fuck 'em."

"What did they want?" Rizzi said.

"An immediate cessation of active hostilities," said Edmondo. "The Bazaar management was concerned that the current state of affairs in Manhattan would adversely affect their business."

"Selfish bastards," spat Fabbro.

Rizzi crossed her arms. "That doesn't sound like them."

"Indeed not," Edmondo said. "The Bazaar historically refrains from influencing events so overtly."

"What changed?"

"Several factors. First, Mister Wick's recent return from retirement."

"You mean single-handedly taking down Viggo Tarasov?"

"Precisely. The Bazaar is concerned about instability. The second factor was the Vargas cartel's recent attempt to make inroads into the city. And the third, it seems, was the Yakuza's entrance into current events." Edmondo looked slightly embarrassed at that.

Rizzi thought it through for a moment, mentally shifting pieces around until they slotted into place. "They see it as too much happening all at once. The Japanese haven't been so involved here for a long time. And now they're worried about that suddenly changing."

"As if I would have let things go that far," Fabbro said. "Ignorant pricks."

"What happened?"

"I refused their demands, that's what fucking happened! But the japs, well I guess they're even more yellow inside than out! All nods and bows, going along with whatever the Bazaar wants. Cowards. Useless fuckin' cowards."

She glanced at Edmondo. "The Yakuza's pulling out?"

"The Bazaar stated that they would suffer no penalties upon their home territories should they agree to de-escalate things here."

"And the chinks across the way." Fabbro slugged the surface of his table, hard enough to leave the crack of impact echoing through the room. The outer door opened and Tony peeked his head in. Seeing Fabbro's state he withdrew rapidly. That, Susan thought, was probably the smartest thing she'd seen him do. "Just sitting there," Fabbro said, pounding the table again, "smiling like the smug bastards they are while the Yakuza agrees to pack up and leave. Well, we'll see who gets the last laugh, huh?"

"What do you have in mind?"

"The Silver Mountain showed their hand today – or rather, their faces. We finally got a look at some of their bigwigs."

"Besides Tiger Shun, you mean?"

Fabbro nodded, turning to Edmondo. "You memorized the features?"

"I'll get to work with the artists. We'll know who they are soon."

"Artists?" she said.

"Forensic artists," Fabbro said. "Those guys that make the sketches and shit for the cops."

"You've got them in your pocket? Heh. Bet that comes in useful."

"Oh, certainly. What about you? Learn anything?"

 _That I'm not alone in this world_ , Susan thought. Shaking her head, she said, "Nothing actionable. There were people of all sorts there. Seems the Bazaar hasn't taken _that_ big a hit to its business yet."

"Sanctimonious bastards," Fabbro said, scowling again. "Where do they get off thinking they know what's best for this city? At least the Continental stays out of things."

"They might just be concerned about what they think the future holds," Rizzi said. "Presumably one doesn't survive as long as they have by being shortsighted. And let's be honest: would anyone really have wanted to see the Yakuza gain more influence here?"

"She does have a point," Tracitus said from beside the bar.

"I would have handled it," Fabbro insisted. "Besides, it's not important anymore. The Yakuza decided to turn tail and go running back to their little island, so fuck 'em. We'll finish this ourselves." He pointed a finger at Rizzi. "Work with Edmondo. We'll hit their leadership once he gets their identities sorted out."

"How many were there today?" she asked.

"Including Shun? Five from the Silver Mountain. Plus the girl."

"Girl?"

"Yeah, a quiet little looker of a Chinese tart. Thought she might have just been eye candy at first, but now I got my doubts. She was there for a reason."

"Like an assistant?" she said, glancing at Edmondo.

"Ah." The aide nodded once in comprehension. "A counterpart."

"Add her to the list," said Fabbro, "but get the men first. They seemed more important."

"You know if you do this," Rizzi said, "that steps things up to another level. Targeting the leadership? That's… uncommon."

"Hey, I started this simple. I would have been happy with concessions, a show of respect. An acknowledgment of our proper place. But no, the Bazaar went and ruined all that. So no compromises, no agreements. Fine. We'll do this the hard way."

Rizzi's gut plummeted. "You know you can't destroy the entire Silver Mountain."

"Maybe no," he said, clenching his fists. "But I can make it so expensive in terms of blood that it's not worth holding onto Manhattan."

"And then? What about the Torettis? The Russians? The Argentines?"

Fabbro waved a dismissive hand. "They're all squabbling between themselves. And none of have what it takes to be a threat. They grew fat and comfortable under Viggo. They're used to having somebody else in charge."

 _You're not Viggo,_ Susan thought. "That seems overconfident."

"You let me worry about that, doll. You just do what I pay you to: eliminate my enemies."

"As you wish." She looked over at Edmondo. "Let me know when you have a target."

She'd covered half the room to the door when Fabbro said, "One more thing."

"What's that?"

"I been hearing from my guys, since this thing with the chinks started. Silver Mountain has a guy to watch out for, somebody with a sword. I was on the lookout for him today, but he didn't seem to be at the table. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, huh?"

She matched his gaze. "Guy with a sword? Sounds kind of ridiculous. You sure it wasn't a cleaver or butcher knife?"

"Just repeating what I've heard, doll."

"Well, I don't know any Silver Mountain men running around with swords. I'll let you know if I shoot any."

* * *

"I had not taken you for the shopping sort," Xiao Ma said as the elevator rose towards Shun's place. "I would almost think there was another motive for it."

"There was," Wu said. "I didn't trust the paths out to be safe. I thought a delay might be better."

Shun laughed, a hearty belly chuckle that rumbled in the enclosed space. "I told you."

Wu glanced over at the Silver Mountain leader's amusement. "Told her what?"

Chou Yu chuckled. "Miss Xiao suggested that you were taking the opportunity to shop for somebody else – such as a pretty lady hidden somewhere."

"Or maybe more than one?" said another of the men beside him. "Perhaps Wu- _cike_ has mistresses hidden away in each city he operates in?"

That drew another round of laughter from the occupants as the elevator doors opened. Wu joined in. "As if I could afford that!" he said, holding the doors while people filed out. "Besides, that would be unwise. Sooner or later they'd discover the truth. Who would want to anger that many women at once?"

"Listen well," Shun said with mock gravity. "For those are the words of wisdom!" The others laughed again.

"No salacious tales?" Chou Yu said as they entered the room where Shun conducted business from.

"Afraid not," Wu said.

"No chaste loves either? No darling sweethearts anywhere at all?"

Unbidden, the memory of Rizzi's warm lips against his rose in Elijah's mind. He shook his head. "Only business."

"Oho," Chou said. "How coldhearted."

"Business is what we should attend to," Tiger Shun said, the levity gone from his face. "Fabbro has rejected the Bazaar's overtures." He laid out a brief description of the meeting's course to them, speaking of the other factions at the table and the Yakuza's agreement to pull out from their belated entry into the underworld war. He spoke of Fabbro's angry reaction to the Bazaar's proposed terms and the collapse of negotiations.

Privately, Wu thought Shun might be leaving some things out. The Silver Mountain had prosecuted this conflict with equal eagerness, and Shun practically radiated with an understated satisfaction.

So, no rest for the wicked.

"Alert the individual chapter houses," Shun said to Chou Yu. "They must redouble their alertness. Take any measures they must to secure themselves, but do not strike the first blow. Let it be clear that we did not move counter to the wishes of the Bazaar first. Let Fabbro reveal his hand. We acted only to protect ourselves."

Chou Yu and the others bowed and headed out. Shun shifted his gaze over to Xiao Ma and nodded. "I'll make the inquiries," she said.

"Inquiries?" Wu asked.

"Into those who attended the conference at Marco Fabbro's side," Shun said. "They fit the descriptions you brought back from the former train station."

"Edmondo," said Xiao Ma, "Fabbro's second. And the other one – tall and strong. A stranger here."

"I believe he shares Fabbro's blood," Shun said.

Xiao Ma tilted her head for a moment, and the nodded. "The features of his face. Yes, I see what you mean."

"See what you can discover from the sources in Italy."

She nodded again. "Will there be anything else?"

"Find out what you can about where Fabbro resides."

Xiao Ma paused. "That is… frowned upon by the others. You know it goes against the old agreements."

"Then do so quietly," Shun said. "We would do well to prepare for the worst with the breakdown of negotiations."

"Did you actually want them to succeed?" Wu asked quietly.

Shun swung his gaze over to him, staring coldly for a second before giving the barest shrug. "This course of events does not displease me. There can be little lasting peace between Marco Fabbro and ourselves. The Bazaar attempted to shape events as they desired; they did not succeed."

"Would you consider that a lesson for the Silver Mountain?"

"Are you questioning my judgment, Wu- _cike_?"

That should have been the sign for him to drop the subject. Instead Wu said, "Suppose I am?"

Shun narrowed his eyes for a second. "I might remind you that you are not among our sworn brethren. But you are not wrong in doing so. There is no certainty of outcomes. Such things often lie beyond our control. We make our decisions with what we have available before us."

Wu nodded but said nothing further.

"Besides, I have every confidence that we hold an advantage in this particular confrontation," said Shun. "With such a skilled professional as yourself at our disposal, how could we not?"

"You flatter me."

"Credit ought to be given where due." Shun nodded to the side. "Continue working with Xiao Ma. I have matters to coordinate with the other heads."

"Are you going to bring the wider Silver Mountain into this?"

"I do not intend to. It should not be necessary, nor would it be… beneficial to prove ourselves a drain of assets. No, this must be resolved here, by us. Fabbro sought to use others against us. We can employ the same methods."

* * *

The next morning Susan opened the door at the customary knock – and frowned as Hirawa Tokayushi's stern visage greeted her. "Can I help you?"

"I seek a witness."

"A witness to what?"

"A duel. The Silver Mountain's mongrel remains. I intend to cross blades with him."

Susan lifted an eyebrow. "I thought you guys had agreed to pull out at the Bazaar?"

"This is not business. This is a personal matter."

"Splitting hairs, isn't it?"

Hirawa looked blankly at her for a second, his confusion evident.

"I mean it's a hell of technicality to try to get away with."

"But a sufficient one," Hirawa said. "This is not in the name of the Two Dragon."

"You're just sticking around to kill him because you want to?" Susan asked.

Hirawa nodded once.

"And why do you want me to see this?"

"You were present when he struck against us. It is fitting that you be present when I strike him down. And you would be witness to the feat."

There was that term again – _witness._ "Why is that so important to you?"

"A man's deeds are like the blossoms of the sakura. They wither and blow away upon the winds of time and mean nothing unobserved. But if they are seen by one who understands, the beauty of the moment endures."

Susan stared at him. "And why me?"

"Your name is known. You would understand."

"And I'm also not Two Dragon," she said. "Plausible deniability."

Hirawa inclined his head. "You are aligned with Fabbro. This will benefit his interests."

"Assuming you win."

"That much is certain," he said.

"Bold, aren't you?"

"He is a houseless mongrel. He could never hope to overmatch one of true lineage and warrior heritage."

Susan hardly thought that was the way things worked, but Hirawa seemed like he would take offense to that- vehemently so. "Do you have a time and place for this duel, then?"

"Not yet. I have not located the mongrel."

"How about tonight?"

Hirawa's eyes widened and he spun around to where Elijah Wu stood in the doorway of his room. "You!"

"Want to kill me? Let's go. Blades, as you wanted."

Hirawa turned back to Susan, an expression of disgust and rage on his face. "You collude with your enemy? Have you no shame?"

"He's staying in the same hotel across the hallway," Susan said. "There's no collusion."

"Prove your word," Hirawa said. "Choose a location."

"You want _me_ to pick?"

"You do know this city best," Elijah said quietly.

Susan looked back and forth between the two of them; a part of her wanted to shut her door and leave the two of them to their own affairs. And yet…

Another part of her wanted to see what would happen.

Wanted to see Elijah take the arrogant Yakuza assassin down.

"There's a tower going up in the west riverside," she said. "The eighteenth floor is empty, under construction. Midnight."

"Works for me," Elijah said.

Hirawa leveled a finger at him. "Make your peace, mongrel. You fall tonight."

"And you talk a lot."

"Is there anything else?" Susan asked.

Hirawa glowered for a moment, then spun on his heel and stalked – she couldn't quite bring herself to see it as _walking_ – down the hallway towards the elevator. She released a sigh; how did she keep getting into these situations?

"I see you've met," Elijah said once Hirawa had gone out of sight.

"Yeah. He's a nice guy, in a racist, extremist zealot sort of way."

"Heh. So…" Elijah leaned against the side of his doorframe. "Breakfast?"

"You still have an appetite? You could die tonight, you know."

He shrugged. "Nothing new about that, is there? Every day, every night, in this line of work could be the last. This really isn't any different."

Was it? "Can you beat him?" Susan asked.

"Honestly? I'm not sure."

She stared at him for a moment, wondering at the sudden snarl in her chest. "But you've still got breakfast on your mind?"

"Well I figure breakfast won't hurt my chances," he said. "And if it ends up being my last meal, there's worse company for it, I think."

"Stop it," she said quietly.

"What?"

"We're working for rival interests," Susan said. "We shouldn't even be talking to each other."

"I know." His stare drilled into her like a crossbow bolt – and then he smiled ruefully. "And I don't really care."

She blew out a slow breath. "Fine." Susan stepped out and shut the door behind her. "Let's have breakfast. You're going to get us both killed, you know."

"Not if Hirawa kills me tonight," Elijah said, far too cheerfully. "Then I won't be your problem anymore."

She knew, as they walked towards the elevator, she didn't want Hirawa to kill him. That much she could admit. What she _didn't_ want to admit was that she didn't mind him being her problem. _Face it, you're in over your head here, and making it worse._


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

"What do you need from me?" Wu said as he looked over the map hanging on Shun's wall.

"A matter that should be relatively simple, but no less important." Tiger Shun brushed a hand against the map. "This image is misleading, is it not?"

"I'm… not sure what you mean."

"This image of the city. One would think it singular, monolithic." He spoke the last word in Chinese, making Wu spend a moment deciphering it. "But the people here – diverse, fractious. Any civilization has its dividing lines within. By tribe or faith or wealth, no nation is truly one."

"I'm still not sure where you're going with this," said Wu.

"This is true for our realm as well."

Wu chuckled darkly. "Even more so, I'd say."

Shun traced the streets on the map with two extended fingers, like he was writing characters in the network of Manhattan's infrastructure. "Some lines can be crossed or broken in times of necessity."

"And which lines are you referring to here?"

"Allies. We have made overtures, arranged meetings. Elder Luo is going to speak with the Argentine and French families today."

And that spoke volumes to Wu. He'd long ago learned that in traditional Chinese culture, it was the supplicant – the inferior – that went to call upon the superior. For one of the Silver Mountain Elders to go to another faction… they must have been taking the possibility of an alliance seriously.

"Xiao Ma will be accompanying him," Shun continued. "We will show the proper respect to our prospective allies. But we will show strength as well." He inclined his head, looking forwards at Wu. "So you shall accompany them as well."

Wu jabbed a finger at his own chest as he raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Yes. We are not moving directly against Fabbro at this time. Your services can still be of use."

"I understand. Do you want this to be friendly or intimidating?"

"I want it polite and professional. We seek allies. Demonstrating that we are powerful is important to that. It is good too that you are of mixed blood. I know the others see us as traditional, clannish. Too much so."

 _There's a reason for that,_ Wu thought. "I can handle it."

"I trust you can. Speak to Xiao Ma," said Shun, nodding to the side. "She is arranging the final details."

"Understood." Wu stepped away from the map. It was going to be one of those jobs, standing in the background like scenery while the important people yammered away. That was fine; he'd already started thinking about the midnight meeting.

* * *

By the time the sun had drifted low in the sky Rizzi felt thoroughly sick of tablets, databases, and blurry photographs. She'd spent most of the day cooped up with Edmondo in the back of an antique store, browsing through screens looking for matches to the forensic sketches of several Chinese men and one woman.

One familiar woman, actually.

The surprise had cut like a blade when she first looked at the picture of the young lady. It lacked the sheer doll-like quality of seeing her in person – unconscious on the floor of Red Lion Huo's apartment. So the woman she'd choked out had been somebody after all, and undoubtedly more important than Huo if she'd been there alongside Tiger Shun.

"Xiao Ma," Edmondo had said, noticing her scrutiny. "There's little about her on record. She must keep her activities surreptitious. But her presence at the conference… I'll have the Eyes look into her more. Never trust the quiet ones."

"Does that apply you as well?" Rizzi said.

"Absolutely." Edmondo smiled thinly, eyes still fixed on the screen before him. "This one," he said, pointing at a picture of an older man with flinty eyes and a beard flowing down his chin, "Luo Shiwei. One of their Elders."

"How many of those do they have in New York?" she wondered. "It can't be that many."

"No, and truth be told the Elders do not play as functional a role as they did in times past. Now it's heads like Tiger Shun that wield the control. The Elders are more ceremonial now than anything."

"For things like showing up to a peace conference called by the Bazaar?"

"Precisely."

Rizzi flipped through some of the collected reports they'd acquired from information brokers. "They mostly stick to China, according to this. Beijing, Shanghai, some holdings in Hong Kong and Taiwan."

"If Luo is indicative, they seem to be quite culturally traditional. Undoubtedly East Asia fits their sensibilities better."

"Hmm." She looked over the available data. "You're right about them being mostly ceremonial. I don't know how much these guys have to do with the day-to-day affairs of the Silver Mountain. I'm not sure if they're worthwhile targets."

"Operationally, perhaps not." Edmondo shrugged. "But the propaganda value if the Silver Mountain proved unable to protect its Elders: that could be invaluable."

"Or the kind of escalation that sends things way out of control."

"Yes, I suppose it is a risk. One that Mister Fabbro no doubt will deem acceptable."

"No doubt." Rizzi leaned back in her seat and stretched, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension in them. "Well, let me know if you actually find an opportunity to target them." She stood and moved for the door. "I should get going. I've still got something to take care of tonight."

"Should I ask?" said Edmondo.

"Probably not," she replied.

"I suppose your personal affairs are just that. So be it. Everyone needs some time here and there."

"How about you?" Rizzi said, pausing at the doorway. "Ever take a day off?"

"That hardly comes with the position, I'm afraid."

"I don't imagine recent events make that any more likely, either."

"It does seem a low probability." Edmondo leaned back in his seat and looked over at her, adjusting his glasses as he did so. "But I'm sure we can rest when we're dead."

"That's probably truer for us than most."

* * *

The floor, still under construction, had a magnificent view of the city towards the east. Cold winds blew through the open space, whistling shrilly and rustling the thick, cloudy, plastic sheets that covered bare steel frames like the shadow of full walls. It reminded Rizzi of the wraps that Charlie's cleaners used to bundle up corpses for disposal. Outside the light-encrusted skyline of Manhattan twinkled and shone, a multi-faceted beacon lighting up the night. It was strange, she thought. Once the city had seemed so magnificently beautiful: its architecture and infrastructure like nothing else in the world. All glitz and glamor, where the movers and shakers chose to inhabit. Modern royalty in their palaces.

But spend a few years murdering for those movers and shakers, in the shadows and dark corners, in the cracks that society didn't notice or didn't care about, and it all seemed so… hollow, sometimes. Like a beautiful fruit rotten on the inside. _Well, you're cheerful tonight._

She turned towards the door of the half-finished staircase as it groaned open. Hirawa Tokayushi stepped out into the space, glancing around with that understated fervor he seemed to emanate all the time. He'd put on a surprisingly pale ensemble; white shirt and a silvery suit. Not what she'd have picked for a duel – that was undoubtedly going to stain. But then, maybe that was the point. He carried a katana in one hand, held at his waist. The _saya_ had a worn, smooth look, like it had been rubbed against cloth for years. The black wrapping on the hilt had similar look, like leather worn smooth from use. He looked over to where Rizzi had wrapped her coat around herself against the cold and grunted once in acknowledgment.

"Where is he?" Hirawa said.

"It's not quite midnight yet," Rizzi said. "You're early. Just relax."

"The mongrel shows no respect," he said as if he hadn't heard her. "Disgraceful."

She glanced at her watch. "He's still got five minutes before midnight. Besides, it's not like his carriage is gonna turn back into a pumpkin if he's late."

Hirawa stared at her silently, his brow furrowed.

"Never mind." She turned back towards the city as Hirawa stood apart, glowering.

The door opened a minute later to reveal Wu as he stepped out of the staircase. The third assassin looked around – checking, no doubt, for an ambush. He had on a functional dark athletic shirt beneath the long coat that concealed the sword at his waist.

"You are late," Hirawa said.

"No I'm not." Wu walked over to Rizzi's side near the open edge of the floor. She watched from the corner of her eye as he stared out at the city. He moved right to the edge, his coat ruffling in the wind. "That's quite a view."

"Yes," she said.

Hirawa gave a disgusted grunt. "Are you finished wasting time?"

Wu looked at his watch. "Yeah, I'm ready."

They walked back towards the center of the floor, where Rizzi had set up some of the construction lights. Hirawa halted and turned to face Wu. He reached into his suit jacket and slowly pulled out a compact USP with two fingers. He set it down and shoved it aside, sliding the pistol so it came to rest against one plastic sheet. Rizzi winced as she noticed the maki-e finish on the USP, but then, it wasn't her pistol. Not that putting a maki-e finish on a gun made much sense to her. Wu pulled his Jericho out in a similar manner, clutching the pistol with the web of his hand as he bent down and set it aside. The wind whistling through made the plastic sheets billow and flag, slapping against hard surfaces as the light from the construction lamps danced crazily.

Hirawa lifted his sword to chest height, pushed the guard out from the scabbard with one thumb, and took hold of its hilt with his right hand. He drew the blade in one slow, smooth motion, presenting the blade towards Wu so that its polished metal caught the light. Then he set the scabbard down without taking his eyes off Wu, lowering it with far more reverence than his pistol.

Wu reached beneath his coat and removed the scabbard. The sword he drew in one swift motion as he practically flung the scabbard aside, where it landed with a clatter. Rizzi noticed the two small fingers of his left hand curled into a loose fist while the index and middle fingers extended rigid; that hadn't been the case during their first meeting. Was this something more formal?

Hirawa settled into a centerline two-handed grip as they both adjusted their stances, bending their knees and lowering their centers of gravity. A chill filled the air that had nothing to do with the wind. Both of them looked over at Rizzi, who stood two meters away.

"What, are you expecting me to drop a handkerchief?" she said, crossing her arms.

And they burst into motion. Hirawa darted forward with a shout, bringing his katana up into an overhead slash. The blade sang through the air, carving a silver crescent as Hirawa brought it down towards Wu. The other assassin met the slash with a circular parry as he danced backwards, redirecting the blow just off to the side with a deft twist of his wrist.

Hirawa kept up the pressure, advancing forward with each stroke and swing. From what Rizzi could see though Wu didn't seem concerned, picking off each blow as he gave ground. She was no swordswoman, but didn't need to be one to see how each fought differently. Hirawa reminded her of a freight train: all unidirectional force and purpose. Wu seemed more like… water. Roiling, surging water. Everywhere Hirawa swung or thrust he vanished, giving no target for the Two Dragon assassin to find purchase against.

Each time Wu intercepted the blade with his own, sliding the flats of their weapons against each other to steer each blow just off course. By the fourth such maneuver Rizzi found herself wondering what the hell he was doing; Wu hadn't actually launched any blows against Hirawa since they'd begun. He just kept giving ground, retreating through into the next room, which was open to the outside. She followed them through, hugging her coat around herself against the chill. Wu's face was an expressionless mask of serenity compared to the incandescent fury of Hirawa's.

He retreated two more steps, closing the distance towards the edge. Rizzi watched as Hirawa stepped forward and launched a diagonal slash that should have cut his opponent open shoulder-to-hip. Wu slapped the side of his blade, guided it onto his own sword's hilt, and stepped aside as he lifted his wrist and twisted – driving the tip into the meat of Hirawa's upper arm.

It wasn't a deep wound; less than an inch from what Rizzi could tell. Blood marked only the barest edge of the sword tip as Wu disengaged. The two separated, the sheer drop off the edge mere feet to their sides now. Blood stained the arm of Hirawa's pale suit like a dark flower. He grimaced, adjusted his grip, and swung again. That blow drew up short as Hirawa pulled the swing, punching out with his left hand. It caught Wu's shoulder, knocking him back a step. Hirawa followed with a side kick, trying to knock Wu off the edge of the building. He stumbled back another step, regained his balance, and went straight back in, staying close – too close for effective swordsmanship from either duelist.

The fight degenerated into a bout of elbow strikes and knee thrusts, each man jockeying for position while seeking to keep the other's sword arm restrained. It wasn't without its own artistry, Rizzi decided. She could appreciate what technique she discerned from the blur.

Hirawa smashed his forehead into Wu's face and wrenching his arm from Wu's grasp, launched a powerful horizontal swing with both hands. Wu barely leapt back in time; Rizzi saw how the front of his shirt had been sliced open, exposing olive flesh beneath. Hirawa didn't relent, throwing another blow immediately and chaining that into an upwards diagonal slash. It looked like Wu would meet that with a block as he angled his sword across. At the last instant he rotated his wrist, bringing the blade in a small circle around the arc of Hirawa's ascending attack as he stepped back at the same time.

Another bead of blood dripped off the tip of Wu's sword. Hirawa's forearm sported a gash near the wrist now. He sneered at Wu and advanced again. Rizzi saw a shadow pass over Wu's face, like he'd made some decision. As Hirawa raised his sword again he burst forward, catching the katana near the guard and forcing both blades down and around.

Wu slapped the back of Hirawa's blade; knocking it aside just enough to draw the edge of his sword across Hirawa's arm again. At that the Japanese man finally released his weapon, dropping the katana to the unfinished floor with a metallic clang. Wu plunged his sword into Hirawa's left leg near the hip. He stepped back as Hirawa wobbled – and collapsed towards the open edge of the floor.

As Rizzi watched, Wu reached out with his free hand and seized Hirawa's collar, holding him off balance right over the edge. "Do it," Hirawa said.

"I don't really have anything against you," said Wu. He hauled Hirawa back from the edge and spun him towards the inside, hurling the injured man through the sheet of plastic where a wall would be.

Hirawa flailed out from the folds of plastic encompassing him, prone on the ground and clutching his wounded leg as Wu ducked through the tear. Rizzi swung back around through the doorway. The smear of blood Hirawa left was a red sheen in the construction lights. Wu looked down at him for a moment, then pulled a scrap of fabric from his pocket and wiped his sword off. "Go home," he said, sheathing the blade.

Hirawa stared back, hatred and incomprehension mixing on his face. "We are not finished."

"Yes we are." Wu shook his head and wiped a trickle of blood from his split lip. "Go home, Hirawa. The Two Dragon Society isn't making a play in Manhattan anymore. We crossed blades: you lost. Let's leave it at that. You don't need to die here."

Hirawa looked over at Rizzi suddenly. "Shoot him," he said.

"What?" Rizzi glanced between the two. "I'm not involved here."

"He is your enemy," Hirawa insisted. "You ought to kill him here and now, while you have the chance."

"You said it yourself," she replied. "This isn't business; it's personal. You wanted me to witness this. I did."

"And you will take no further action? Coward."

"You're the one who wanted this duel." She shifted a step over, looked at Wu. "You should probably get going."

"Yeah." Wu tossed her a gold coin that she caught with one hand, nodding to Hirawa as he stepped past and retrieved his pistol. "For him."

"That's nice of you," she said, watching him leave. Then Rizzi turned back to Hirawa and drew her weapon as she saw him crawling towards his own gun. She raised the coin with one hand and the pistol with her other. "This'll pay for either your treatment or your burial. Your choice."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

"Are you alright?"

Elijah blinked over his cup of coffee at Susan's question. She gazed calmly back at him over the lip of her own porcelain cup. He drummed his fingertips against the edge, set it down on the table, and glanced around the Continental's elegant dining room. "Yeah, sure. Why do you ask?"

"That coin you gave me for Hirawa yesterday night," she said after a moment. "That could have been for either an ice cream truck or a dinner reservation. You never did specify."

"Huh. I guess I didn't." Elijah sat back and sighed. "So, which one did you call?"

"Well, you didn't kill him."

"And did you?"

"Why didn't you?" she asked, ignoring his question.

"I…" He frowned. "Wait, ice cream truck? Is that what it's called here?"

"Yeah," Susan said, one corner of her lips twitching upwards in a lopsided grin. "Contents easily perishable. What do they call them on the west coast?"

"Coffee deliveries." He lifted his cup in a small toast. "Same idea, I suppose."

"I suppose. So… why'd you let Hirawa live?"

"Didn't have much of a reason to kill him, honestly. It wasn't business. Wasn't really personal either."

"He seemed to feel differently. Did you know him from before or something?"

"Just by reputation. Like I told Hirawa, I didn't really have anything against him. Killing him wouldn't have been meaningful one way or the other."

"Except now he probably bears you a grudge."

Elijah felt the slow smile spread across his face. "So you didn't get him a dinner reservation."

"No. I got him treatment. Not that he seemed happy about it. I think he might prefer if you'd actually killed him."

"Too bad."

"And if he goes after you again?"

He shrugged. "Then all bets are off. And we probably won't be hashing it out with swords."

"That simple?"

"Why not? We're not in high school anymore. There's no room for bullshit child rivalries in our line of work."

"You sure about that?" Susan said, lifting an eyebrow. "Sometimes I think there's more of that in our world than anything else."

He paused, thought about it. Hmm. Maybe she had a point. "Alright, maybe I'm just idealistic. One would hope people would be beyond that stuff when dealing with the stakes that we do."

"Ha! As long as there's a human element you end up with human shortcomings."

"Yeah, maybe. But if we could rise above them-"

"Oh come on." She leaned in, lips pressed together in a thin slash. "You're talking about a realm where murder is a go-to solution for problem solving. Do you really think there's room for idealism or transcending our faults or any of that shit?"

"Probably not," Elijah admitted. "But it would be nice if there were, right?"

"Why?" she shot back. "So we can feel better about what we do? What we are? What would be the point? That wouldn't change anything."

He fiddled with his coffee cup, feeling the heat against his fingertips as he rotated it on the saucer. "What about the code? You were very… passionate about it at the Bazaar."

"What about the code?" Susan said. "It's there to keep a system of horrors from being even worse."

"That's rather grim."

"Tell me I'm wrong." For a moment it sounded like she was… pleading with him.

"I don't think you are," he said.

Susan set her cup back down and leaned back. "Didn't think so." Her eyes glittered with disappointment – why? "Well, I'd better get going," she said, pushing her seat back as she stood up. "See you around."

Elijah watched as she walked off. He pondered her odd moodiness, feeling a spike of resentment.

What did she want from him?

* * *

"I want you to kill this man." Fabbro laid a photo on the table before her. Rizzi looked down at it; the background was slightly blurry but its subject was clear.

"Luo Shiwei," she said. "Edmondo and I were looking into him."

"Silver Mountain Elder," Fabbro said. "Make him dead."

"Just like that, huh?"

"The Eye came through." Fabbro tapped the photo. "Luo's been on the move, meeting with other family heads." He tossed two more photos down onto the table. "Pablo Suarez. Jean Marceaux."

"The Argentines and the French? What's going on?"

"Luo has been talking to them. And I bet I know what about, huh?"

"Allies," said Rizzi. "They're looking for allies."

Fabbro pointed a finger at her in acknowledgment. "That's my read on it too, doll. And we can't have that, can we?"

"Sounds like they're taking a page from your playbook," Rizzi said. "You did bring in the Yakuza first."

"And now they're no longer involved. So now the chinks are just playing dirty, huh?"

"It also makes a fair amount of sense," she said. "Talking to other factions doesn't violate any of the Bazaar's-"

"That's because nothing was established," Fabbro said, face darkening into a glower. "I refused to bow to their unearned demands. They don't get to just decide things on a whim!"

"Calm down." She dragged the photos closer to her with her fingertips, looking the images over. "What did you want to do about these two?"

"Eliminate them."

She blinked. "Are you sure? They're-"

"Not particularly important. Viggo didn't care about them. New York won't miss them. And they chose the wrong side."

"I'm sure this'll end well," Rizzi muttered. She pushed herself off from the table and rose to her feet. "I'll start looking into their whereabouts then."

"Don't need to worry yourself about that," Fabbro said, smirking. "I have my own sources – and my secrets."

"You know something, then?"

"The Golden Phoenix: you know of it?"

"Restaurant and lounge, isn't it? Silver Mountain spot?"

"Yeah, well they don't advertise that little detail," he said. "They haven't advertised why they're closed for the afternoon two days from now either, but I'm sure you can figure it out, huh?"

"The meeting," she said with cold certainty. "Fabbro, you know getting inside while they have three family heads there is going to be nearly impossible."

"Who said it has to be inside? They just need to die while they're all together."

"And that's mandatory?"

Fabbro nodded. "It sends a message. That's important."

"Great."

"You got two days to figure out how to do it. Plenty of time, huh?"

"Yeah. Plenty of time," said Rizzi, feeling the lump of ice in her chest. She turned towards the door. "If you'll excuse me, I think I have some recon to do."

"Hold up, doll." Fabbro's voice pulled her to a halt. "Things are getting a little heated out there, huh?"

What was this? Concern for her well-being?

"Try to lay low the next couple of days," he said. "You're of no use if you get made or caught."

Ah. Of course not. She gave Fabbro a brittle smile. "Don't worry, I'm not exactly planning to storm the Golden Phoenix tonight or anything. Just need to get the lay of the land."

"Look but don't touch," said Fabbro. "And try not to bring attention on yourself, huh?"

"Relax," she said, heading for the door once again.

And yet, as she rode the private elevator down towards the ground floor, she couldn't take her own advice.

* * *

The Golden Phoenix had once been a concert hall of spired arches and buttressed stone before its current purpose. Like so much else in the city, it presented a contradiction of sorts with its surroundings: dark old stone next to structures of brick, steel, and glass. But that was what made it interesting, Rizzi thought. Manhattan had a flavor – a soul – like nothing else in the world, and that just wouldn't be the case without its distinctive architectural quirks.

Those quirks, however, could mask details crucial to success or failure. Spend too much attention on them and one could miss just how well the Golden Phoenix was protected. Like how each of the rear and side doors had at least two cameras covering them. Or how the suited personnel that looked like staff members on break always came outside in twos, how they didn't smoke their cigarettes slouched against the nearest wall but took regular circuits around the building. They weren't on break; they were on watch.

Rizzi took all of this in as she wandered the streets around the Golden Phoenix, phone up before her and dressed like a tourist out to take in the sights. She affected that wide-eyed, head-on-a-swivel, try-to-catch-it-all look common among those visiting the city for the first time. Another benefit of Manhattan: no shortage of social camouflage to take advantage of.

And no shortage of infrastructure and construction work at any given time. She turned her camera on the half-finished skeleton of a building across the street from the Golden Phoenix's front. It stood spindly and sparse, a small forest of girders and beams, of bare concrete floors still open to the elements and wall outlines of steel bars like prison cells running between thick columns driven into the open pit of its foundation. It was still too early to tell what the finished structure would eventually be used for; only the barest suggestions of its ultimate form had yet been established. The bars of its frame cast a jagged network of shadows inside, pools of darkness within its boundaries that defied vision from outside. She didn't know how tall the finished product would be, but already it towered over the Golden Phoenix by several stories, the bare steel girders protruding from the top like an uneven crown.

Rizzi crossed the street and walked up alongside the construction site, peering over the orange divider barriers into the pit. Exposed piping ran along the edges and down into the center, steam wafting off from the condensation in the chilly air. Over at one side of the excavation sat an opening: a tunnel from which spilled an array of pipes and cable housings. It wasn't entirely dark down in there. She could see the dim glimmer of lights inside the tunnel and its concrete construction. Established infrastructure, then. And that meant…

She brought up the map on her phone, superimposing her position and surroundings with the images on the screen in her mind, and-

Yup. That was almost certainly one of the utilities tunnels, and its direction took it straight towards the subway station a block over. She looked back up, taking in the tangled cage of the nascent building reaching for the sky.

Now this she could work with.

* * *

"Is it necessary to close the whole establishment down?" asked the middle-aged proprietress, her sleek, dark gown at odds with the exasperated expression on her face. "The whole space for a dozen people?"

Wu glanced around at the heavy, round wooden tables scattered around their mezzanine that overlooked a snaking bar and split dancing spaces like so many pedestals. The hall sported an air of multi-tiered verticality, as if it had been designed to drive clientele to seek the upper reaches like pilgrims on a journey. He imaged the place packed with people; Madame Guo had a point. This was an extravagant gesture.

"It wouldn't be the busiest time, would it?" he said. "A few hours in the afternoon shouldn't be so bad."

" _Aiya_ ," said Madame Guo. "This city is never still, never lifeless. Always activity, always profit to be made."

"And your record speaks for itself," Xiao Ma said smoothly, cutting across the mezzanine from where she'd been standing at the edge. "Your profits are indeed impeccable."

"Then why close us for this meeting?" Guo asked, gesturing to the tables a level beneath them. True to her word, the place was far from empty. Diners and visitors packed many of the tables as red-shirted servers pushed carts of dim sum down the aisles, speaking quietly and pointing out various items. It looked like some choreographed dance with many participants.

"Impressions matter," Xiao Ma said, blowing a short breath out. "It would be unbecoming to force the representatives of other organizations to mingle with outsiders. And showing that we can be so extravagant as to set aside this entire establishment – that is a statement of its own as well."

"And security," Wu added. "An open house is a nightmare."

Madame Guo threw her hands into the air and walked off towards the offices, muttering in Chinese.

Xiao Ma watched her leave, then turned her gaze on Wu after a moment. "Your thoughts?"

"Doesn't really matter what I think."

"Perhaps not, but your face shows you do not approve."

Wu crossed his arms. "It's too public, too exposed."

"We are already reserving the entire facility," she pointed out. "This is hardly a public event."

"It's still essentially a public location. Have you forgotten the Red Circle already?"

"This is different. We will be admitting nobody else."

"I'm pretty confident Wick didn't make his way in through the line at the front," said Wu. "My point is, there's no way this place's association with the Silver Mountain is secret, no matter your best efforts. Hosting something here isn't a good idea with everything that's going on."

She looked out and down at the space below. "Neither do I," she admitted. "But we must work with what we are given."

"This was Eighth Tiger's decision?"

"Yes."

Wu sighed as they made their way down a winding, circular staircase and forwards towards the lobby and front doors. Here at least was a modicum of security. The set of five double doors quickly narrowed to a chokepoint inside, making the entrance a killing zone if anybody tried a frontal assault. Outside the glass doors the endless stream of New York pedestrians and traffic flowed by. "I'll have a talk with him," Wu said, staring out.

"You know he will not change his mind at this point."

"I know. But somebody should tell him it's a bad idea anyway."

"And you are volunteering? How brave," she muttered from behind him.

He didn't turn around. "Eighth Tiger doesn't strike me as petty in that regard," said Wu. Outside the crowds of people and cars opened up for a moment like the parting of the Red Sea, bringing the construction site across the way into clearer view. He watched as one tourist wandered away, tapping at her phone. Was that… he hadn't seen her face, only caught a glimpse of her backside as she walked off. It couldn't be, he thought. Shifting, he tried to get a better look as the person disappeared into the crowd, and-

"Wu- _cike?_ " Xiao Ma's voice jolted him from that line of thought. "Your attention appears to have wandered."

"My apologies," Wu said, turning back towards her.

"Did you see something?" she said.

"Would it change anything if I said I had?" Her silence gave Wu all the answer he needed. "No," he said, "Never mind."

"Are you at least satisfied with the security preparations?"

Wu sighed. "This place is like a fortress. This is probably as good as it's going to get."

"Yet you still disapprove."

"The best way to get hit is to give your opponent a target to strike at."

"What a curious idea," Xiao Ma said. "Surely there is more to it than that?"

Wu stared ahead for a moment. Was there? "Doesn't have to be," he said. "We should get going."

"Yes." She nodded once. "If you have no more objections?"

"I still intend to speak to Eighth Tiger."

"So be it," Xiao Ma said. She reached for the door but Wu held a hand out before she could grasp the handle.

"Not out the front," he said. "We take the side exits."

She shot him a look of equal parts amusement and annoyance. "Your paranoia is showing, Wu- _cike._ Are you thinking somebody is waiting outside to gun us down right now?"

"It doesn't have to be something like that. Let's not announce that we're here. No reason to take further risks if we don't need to."

"So be it." Xiao Ma spun on her heel. "We leave out the side," she said as if it were her idea.

Wu grinned to himself as he followed her. Xiao Ma strutted towards the path leading to the nearest side exit, her head held high as her heels rang off the polished stone. The grin faded swiftly; Xiao Ma was almost certainly right about Tiger Shun's inevitable response. The whole conflict with Fabbro had morphed into something beyond business, he felt. And that…

That was one of the things you learned fast in the life. Making things personal got you killed. It cost you objectivity, blinding you to certain things while making certain other things seem to be the whole of existence.

He passed Xiao Ma at the side door and pushed it open, sweeping both sides of the alleyway before opening it all the way and holding it open for the Silver Mountain lady.

"Bring the car around," she said to the closest guard pacing toward them.

"At once," he said, dipping into a shallow bow.

Wu kept glancing between the alley mouths while they waited; the pungent, sour odor of city garbage assaulted his senses despite the cold. Xiao Ma wrinkled her nose as she scowled at him. "Was this truly necessary?" she said.

Wu didn't answer, busy as he was focusing on potential approaches. Nothing jumped out at him, literally or figuratively, yet he didn't relax.

Something about this whole thing nagged at his senses, something he had no explanation for. It went beyond his objections about the location or the meeting. _That tourist's backside really got you rattled_ , he told himself. His hand rested on the grip of his pistol beneath the coat.

One of the guards reappeared at the mouth of the alley and waved one hand at them. Wu stepped in front of Xiao Ma, his gaze flickering from car to street to alleyway. Escorting her to the rear door of their car, he tugged it open and interposed himself between her and the crowds on the street. Xiao Ma smirked at him as she entered the car.

Climbing into the passenger seat, Wu nodded at Chou Yu as the Silver Mountain man pulled the car out of the alleyway into the street, weaving around and through the traffic with experienced ease. "I take it Old Lady Guo still isn't happy?" Chou Yu asked.

"Not so much," said Wu. "It will be a disruption to her business. No avoiding that."

Chou Yu took one hand off the wheel and waved dismissively. "She's always like that. Concerned only with the state of the Golden Phoenix."

"Pay her no mind," Xiao Ma said from the back seat. "Madame Guo may be stiff-necked and argumentative, but she knows when to flow along with the river's current. She will acquiesce. The meeting will proceed as planned."

"I'm sure it will," Wu said. He looked out the window at the city sliding by.

And tried to feel that confident.

* * *

"Laundry service?" said Charon at his usual spot behind the Continental's front desk. "Of course."

"And some more specialized cleaning," said Susan.

"Certainly. Full tool services are available."

She shook her head. "Just the softeners."

"As you wish." Charon gave her the fleetest shadow of a grin; she certainly wasn't the first or only one who babied her guns but disliked cleaning silencers. The bloody things and their baffles were just _tedious_ once they got all filthy from carbon buildup. The Continental, she knew, tended to use all sorts of caustic and toxic chemical solutions to get the job done much faster than breaking one down and scrubbing. That stuff would probably get city health and safety officials cracking down in a real hurry if word ever got out, but that hadn't happened yet, so Susan was happy to let the staff cart her suppressors off to whatever sealed lab they had for this sort of stuff.

They finished hashing out the details and Susan moved on up to her room. She shrugged out of her cheery tourist getup and stared out the window for a long minute, taking in the sight of the manmade canyons of stone, steel, and glass.

Strange. The materials, the raw _stuff_ , were far more durable than any human body could be. Build something properly and it could still be around a hundred, a thousand years later. And yet the city seemed to exist in a perpetual state of construction. Old buildings and complexes torn down and demolished without mercy to make way for the new. As if each architect, each work crew, each city planner was engaged in a competition for immortality that might only be one by dethroning and dismantling the work of someone else, like there were only so many pedestals in the hall of the gods and getting a place atop one meant knocking a current occupant from their perch.

Or maybe she was just looking at it from the perspective of her profession. _Probably not healthy_ , she told herself ruefully. Susan flopped down onto her bed with a sigh, enjoyed the simple sensation of the sheets on her bare skin, and gazed up at the ceiling.

She liked the quiet and the stillness, more than she had ever expected to. It wasn't that she enjoyed her work _per se_ ; she'd just never really been one for stillness and thinking on the deep secrets of the universe or anything like that. But given the tempo with which events had been occurring in Manhattan since Wick had returned and then vanished again, a little moment of peace and quiet came as a welcome reprieve.

Susan sat up. _Moment over._ Stepping over to the desk, she connected her phone to her laptop, transferred the photos she'd taken over to the larger screen, and started planning.

She had just begun putting some of the finer details in place when the knock at the door jolted her out of it. Susan glanced around. "One moment," she called, slipping into her robe.

Gathering the little basket of dirty clothes, Susan stepped over to the door, tugged it open, and-

"You are not the laundry person."

"Not typically," Elijah said. "I was going to ask if you'd had dinner yet."

"You offering?" Susan asked.

He tilted his head fractionally to the side. "I suppose I am."

"Tempting," she said.

And it actually was, she realized. Just leave everything behind for a little while. No distance and ballistic calculations. No escape route plans. No plotting murder. Just some amiable company.

"But I'm in the middle of something. Maybe another time."

"You are planning to eat, right?"

"Sure, I'll get room service or something. No big deal." Susan gave him a sloppy grin. "You're looking out for me now? Thanks, mother dearest."

He paused, stared at her long enough that Susan felt that twinge of discomfort creeping up her spine. She stowed her grin away. "What?"

"The way you said that," Elijah replied. "Did you not have a great relationship with your mother?"

"You don't get to psycho-analyze me," she said, rolling her eyes. "It was just a phrase."

"Okay." He nodded and took a step back. "Sorry about that."

Susan squeezed her eyes shut, pinched the bridge of her nose, and sighed. "No, it's- I didn't mean to ram it down your throat that way."

"Don't worry about it," he said, shaking his head gently. "It's not my place to pry." Elijah took another step back and half-turned towards the elevator end of the hallway. "I'll see myself to the dining room."

As he set off down the hall Susan felt another sigh escape her. Her calm, detached zen state of professional planning had been shot to pieces now. What was it about this person that had this effect on her? _Oh well, what the hell?_ "Hold on," she called. "I'll come with you."

* * *

"So," Susan said, picking at her salad with a fork, "you sure went to parental issues real fast. Doing some projection there?"

"Wait," Elijah said. "I don't get to pry but you do?" He smiled to show he didn't intend any heat behind the comment.

To his relief she smirked rather than seeming to take offense. "Call it a woman's prerogative."

He chuckled and cut a piece of the roasted chicken breast on the plate before him. Popping it into his mouth to buy time, he chewed and savored the impeccably seasoned meat. "It seems to me," he said once he'd swallowed, "that given our profession and the world it exists in, one could reasonably expect that more than a fair number of us come from broken backgrounds."

"I doubt you're wrong." Susan speared a chunk of endive on the tines of her fork. "Doesn't make you right about me there."

"Duly noted." Elijah nodded once at her. He went back to his meal, methodically reducing chicken and vegetables to little chunks before chowing down.

They ate in silence for several minutes before Susan quietly said, "Doesn't necessarily mean you're wrong, either."

Elijah's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "I'm sorry."

"Why?" she replied. "It had nothing to do with you."

"Perhaps not, but… I still am."

Susan twirled the fork in her fingers. "You're… you're serious."

He nodded, struggling to understand _why_ that was the case. There shouldn't be room in his life for this. "It- There are too many dysfunctional families as it is."

"Yeah," she said, "they're a great source of business." Then she grimaced and looked away to the side. "Ugh. Sorry, that's a pretty tasteless joke."

"I won't hold it against you."

Susan set her fork down and interlaced her fingers. "Why are we doing this?" she said suddenly.

"What? Awkwardly dancing around personal issues?"

" _This_." She gestured to the table between them. "Doing things like this isn't smart."

"Neutral ground," Elijah said, cognizant that they seemed to be revisiting a sticking point in their- He stumbled mentally at calling it a _relationship._ Hell, he sure didn't know just what this thing they had going was. Or if there actually _was_ something going, or if he had just- _Argh._ This made his head hurt, and he really had no place in his life for this.

And yet, here they were.

He realized she was now staring at him like somebody looking at a gun that they were certain had a round chambered or not. Elijah shrugged. "That's one of the things about this life, isn't it? Compartmentalization. Things can happen in places like this separate from out in the field or on a contract."

"Things?" she echoed. "And just what things might you be referring to?"

Oh. Crap. And here he was, out of chicken pieces to buy time with. "How about… two professionals who can at least tolerate one another's company?"

That playful glint returned to Susan's eyes for just a moment. "I'm only tolerated?"

"You did nick me with a knife."

"And you threw me out a window. If we're basing things off that, I think I'm the one tolerating you, no?"

"Fair enough," he said, returning the grin. And wondered if the deflection and fallback to bantering had come as easily to her as it had to him.

Susan looked away after another moment. "It's not always that neat," she said. "The compartmentalization."

"What do you mean?"

"I think you know," she said, still not meeting his gaze.

 _I'm really not sure about that,_ he thought. He said nothing, just shrugged.

"It's enough to make one wonder sometimes."

"About?"

"The compartmentalizing," Susan said. "You ever wonder if separating things out like that…"

"What?"

"Well… we separate this thing out…" She pushed a leaf of her salad out to one side of the plate. "And then that, and one after another." A series of flourishes with her fork had the remnants of her meal split across all the quadrants of her plate. "Before long each chunk stays apart from the other, right? But each part is only a bit of the whole. It's not quite as satisfying to eat them one by one."

"Life is not exactly a salad," Elijah said.

"No, it's infinitely more complex and messier. My point stands."

"We aren't the only ones who divide our lives up. _Everyone_ does, even the ones who don't realize it." He snorted gently. " _Especially_ the ones who don't realize it."

Susan twitched a hand upwards and out. "Look how that works out for the vast majority of people."

"They get by," Elijah said. "You're awfully cynical for somebody young."

"Hello? Contract killer. Nobody stays young for long in this business." She lifted an eyebrow at him. "And you're one to talk, oh wizened sage."

He felt himself grin at that. "Fine, so neither of us were the old guard."

"No, I suppose not. Considering what happened to them-" She broke off, frowned thoughtfully. "Actually, the way most of them went out wasn't so bad, all things, considered."

"You are talking about people like Wilhelm Otts, right? Didn't he get gunned down by the GSG 9 on his last job?"

"Yes, but that was because he reversed course on the contract when the client wanted him to wipe out the target's family as well. Otts made the choice; he knew what he was doing. He went out on his own terms. How many people get the chance to do that?"

"Huh." Elijah sat back. "Hadn't really thought of like that. It does make sense, though is that really all you want from life?"

"It's not a matter of what I _want_ ," she said. "It's a matter of… the world having changed, yeah? That sort of thing just doesn't happen much anymore, you know?"

"Ah, okay. And if you dictate how you go, then the last thing in your life you have some measure of control over."

"Precisely." Susan nodded, her eyes sad. "There's enough stuff we _don't_ have any control of."

Elijah lifted his wineglass. "I'll drink to that."

Susan plucked her own glass up and clinked it to his in a gentle toast. "Here's to compartmentalized lives and going out on our own terms."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

The sky threatened snow, working hand-in-hand with the dismally chill wind howling through the unfinished building. Rizzi kept herself from shivering through dogged force of will; she'd been sequestered away several floors up in the construction site across the Golden Phoenix since the wee hours of the morning, the day the meeting between the Silver Mountain and other factions was scheduled to take place.

Rizzi lay prone in a shadowed cubby that might one day become some kind of storage closet, back far enough to not be seen by the crowds and cars filling the streets below but close enough to keep an eye on the Golden Phoenix's front doors. A column of chunky black SUVs had disgorged a group of sixteen or so at the entrance earlier. Nothing had come in or out since then.

Reaching over to her pack, Rizzi flipped it open and drew her rifle. She flipped its stock open, checked the ACOG scope she'd zeroed the previous day, and then drew out a suppressor. She screwed that into place over the end of the muzzle, snugged it down, and set the weapon down at her side.

Now came the waiting.

* * *

It felt like hours before something happened, though the clock insisted otherwise. The doors of the Golden Phoenix opened, guards pushing them outwards and taking position on the steps leading to the street. Rizzi rose up to a crouch and shouldered her rifle. She peered through the scope at the figures below. A mix of Chinese men – Silver Mountain – and several others, Latino and European.

And one familiar man.

"Damn it, Elijah," Susan muttered, staring through the scope at the assembled people, trying and failing to not look like a bunch of guards. She watched him look around both ways at the street. _He's not supposed to be here._ She pulled away from the sight and panned her head around, looking for any sign of reinforcements or backup. The stream of New York traffic beneath was like a river – a constant flow that didn't appear to cease ever. Nothing like a parked van full of heavily armed thugs, though. There – the convoy of black SUVs making its way towards the Golden Phoenix, all tinted windows and subdued style. They were the same cars as she'd seen earlier. Elijah looked around again, then nodded back towards the doors.

Rizzi shouldered the rifle, tucking its stock in tight as she sighted in through the scope again. She wouldn't have much of a window of opportunity here. Just the width of the stairs and sidewalk, really. Wait until most of them had come out. How many aimed shots could she get off from this position? Four? No more than five. Movement came from within the doors.

She really should shoot Wu first. She knew she had… biases, but her gut told her that would cripple the Silver Mountain's operations in New York more than any of these fops. Then the VIPs came out. Rizzi recognized them through the magnified view in the scope. Just as planned: Luo Shiwei, in an old-fashioned Mao suit, smiling and nodding to the others. Pablo Suarez, the Argentinean honcho with movie-star good looks, like a man in the late prime of life. Jean Marceaux, of the French Lavillon syndicate, buzz-cropped blond hair highlighting the paleness of his skin. And another one she didn't recognize – a Russian, maybe? Rizzi had started pacing her breathing, slow breaths in and out, shutting out the bite of the wind and the noise of the city and she really should shoot Wu first…

The first was almost to the bottom of the stairs. The others clustered behind him, chatting quietly. They moved like unconcerned tourists even as Wu waved them along quickly and urgently. She lined the reticule up on the first target. _Now._

Rizzi pressed the trigger. The rifle bucked against her shoulder; she swung the sight smoothly to the next target in the same instant. Three more shots followed in the next heartbeat as she worked the weapon back through the group of targets. The snaps of the suppressed rifle fire echoed in the air.

She spent two seconds checking the state of the targets and put one more round into the body of Marceaux, who was still moving. Then she turned and rushed for the stairs, folding the stock of her weapon and unscrewing the warm suppressor. She stuffed both into her pack and slung the kit over her shoulders as she hustled down the unfinished stairs and drew her pistol.

She didn't go for the street; between the panicking bystanders and the other Silver Mountain people now scrambling in the area that was an obvious poor choice. The stairs went down past street level into the pit of the construction site. She leapt the last several steps, her breath fogging in the cold. Fortunately the back of this staircase faced the opposite building at street level, shielding her from view amidst the tangle of steel and concrete. Rizzi sprinted through the rows of thick pillars. Screaming came from above; she didn't have long. Holding her pistol close against her chest, she ducked into the opening of the underground tunnel she'd spotted the other day and kept moving.

She could barely see anything in the darkness – just enough to make out the thick bundles of cables, wires, and pipes running along the walls. The tunnel was narrow, barely wide enough for her to move unhindered through it. The claustrophobic confines channeled steam and muggy heat so it almost felt like a sauna. Sweat ran down her neck and back from the sudden transition. There was a junction up ahead, indeed connecting to the subway station according to the layout plans she'd drawn up. Once she reached that she could disappear into the crowd; with her pack, hoodie, and sporting wear she should blend in as any other urban explorer.

Rizzi made it to the junction, nearly fumbling around in the dark. She cracked the maintenance door open a hair and peered into an empty concrete corridor lit by a dreary light panel. The station lay beyond the dark gray door at the other end. Moving quietly, she crossed the corridor. Reaching the door she pushed gently on the latch bar, eased it barely open enough to slip through, and-

Grunted as the door slammed down on her chest, pinning her in place halfway through.

The glint of a blade several inches from her eye filled her vision. "Rizzi?" The quiet voice came out of the darkness, close and soft. "Damn it." Wu leaned into the light coming from the half-open doorway; his weight against the door kept her in place, trapping her gun hand across her chest and in no position to respond. "Had to be you." His blade remained pointing at her, but there was a slight tremor to it now.

"You should strike," she said. "Not gonna get another chance like this."

"I really should." Wu released a breath slowly, and then lowered the gun. "The next train comes along in two minutes. You'd better hurry."

"Wha-" Rizzi blinked. "Why are you-"

"Not here, not now." His face set in a grimace, Wu sheathed his blade and stepped away from the door, releasing her. "You should go, now."

Susan narrowed her eyes, then shifted towards the subway. Wu remained still. She kept moving without ever turning her back on him, glancing around all the while in case another Silver Mountain hitter waited in the shadows all around this little-used part of the station. Making her way to the platform, she felt Wu's gaze on her until the subway train arrived and she climbed aboard. Slipping in amongst the other riders, she released a shaky breath as the doors slid shut and the train jolted into motion.

* * *

Making sure his coat covered the scabbard at his waist, Wu walked back up the stairs from the subway station to the street. Kang Lun waited at the entrance, one hand tucked inside his suit jacket. "Anything?" he asked.

Wu shook his head. "Nothing of interest. Let's go."

"Eighth Tiger won't like this," Kang said. "No results from coming this way?"

"It was a hunch," Wu said. "The attacker could have fled in any direction. It wasn't this one."

"Eighth Tiger-"

"Was warned about the risks of hosting the meeting in such a place." Wu shook his head as they moved down the busy street, lowering his voice against the crowds of pedestrians moving along. Wailing sirens came from up ahead; there was no way to quietly make something like this disappear. Four criminal leaders shot in the open – things were getting… loud, ugly.

All the factions that made up the disparate criminal underworld had an unspoken agreement about such _overt_ activities. Corruption may have run deep all over the law enforcement fields, but it had its limits. Go too loud, too visible, and they wouldn't have any choice but to respond – and that just made things even more complicated for everyone, no matter the group. Shed all the blood you like in the shadows, but keep it out of the public eye. As much as possible, anyway.

The flow of traffic up ahead had come to a clogged halt. Not surprising. "Scatter," Wu said. "Stay out of the way of the police, go to ground, but stay ready."

"We will avenge ourselves threefold for this," Kang promised.

"First get clear."

Kang nodded, but grimaced all the while. "We'll find the one who did this; kill him with a thousand slow cuts."

"Yes, of course. Get _moving._ "

Wu turned away and started heading for the subway station. The Silver Mountain's meeting points would undoubtedly be under observation. Better to take the roundabout route, lay low until he was called for.

And he tried not to think about the implicit betrayal he'd just committed. Rizzi wasn't a target, he told himself. Not yet, anyway. They didn't know she'd been the one here. _She could also have shot you first_ , he realized as he hustled down the wide street. So he wasn't a target yet either. Well, that was encouraging. Neither had she tried to draw down on him in the subway. She genuinely wasn't interested in killing him – at least, not at the moment.

Despite everything, that thought made him smile.

* * *

"Good work," Fabbro said, practically rubbing his hands together with glee. "Let's see Silver Mountain try to form alliances after that!"

"Best not get too giddy," Rizzi said. "There's going to be some kind of retaliation."

"Sure, sure. But we ruined their- what's that term the chinks use?" Fabbro snapped his fingers. "Face. That's the one. Now everybody knows. They can't protect their Elders, they can't protect their guests. Bad form, huh?"

"Hmm." She paused. "You said Elders, plural. There was only one there today."

"Yeah, that's not surprising. It was plural because-" He drew out a folder and tossed it carelessly onto his penthouse table. "We got another one, huh?"

Rizzi flipped through the packet of photographs and documents. "Joe Lee. Fabbro, it looks like he's been out of the game for a while."

"What, don't tell me you're buying the quiet retiree act?" Fabbro snorted contemptuously. "Nobody gets out of this life, doll. You know better than that."

"Some do," she said quietly.

"Like Wick? _Woooh._ " He waved his hands around. "The fuckin' boogeyman. How'd that work out for him, huh?"

"Lee is pretty far uptown," Rizzi said, looking through his DMV files. "That's definitely not Silver Mountain territory."

"Does it matter? He's one of their Elders – retired or not. Makes him a target."

"If you insist."

"I do," Fabbro said pointedly. "But it's not urgent. Not a rush job. Been a lot happening recently. Maybe too much, huh?"

"Fine." Rizzi gathered up the folder and its contents.

Fabbro snapped his fingers as she started to turn for the door. "Before I forget, Julius wanted you tonight. Handle that first, will you?"

 _Eww,_ she thought. _Please don't phrase it that way._ "Where?" she asked.

"Silken."

"Sil-" Rizzi paused. "Oh, hell no."

He scowled. "What's the big deal?"

"You know what that place is, right?"

"Of course. I say again: what's the big deal?"

"I _don't_ do that," said Rizzi, crossing her arms.

"Oh for- Julius just likes to ass the night there, huh?"

"Do you know what he wants to talk about?"

Fabbro shrugged. "Didn't ask. Look, it's probably business-related, yeah? Just go see him."

"Not at Silken."

"What does it matter where you meet him?"

"Because it's _Silken,_ Fabbro. It's not a great precedent to set in a professional situation. And I don't provide that kind of service."

"It's not like I'm telling you to fuck him," Fabbro said. "Although, God knows that might get him to calm down." When Rizzi's scowl deepened he grunted. "Am I paying you or not?"

She released a slow breath. "Fine. I'll see what he wants."

* * *

"See to the arrangements," Tiger Shun said quietly, and ended the call. Wu and Xiao Ma stood in the basement of another construction site, this one belonging to Silver Mountain interests. It was far more complete than the skeleton across the Golden Phoenix; finished exterior work sheltered it from the elements and most of its interior walls were in place. The electrical work was still in progress, leaving the illumination to construction lamps mounted on tall stands.

It lent the basement an air of a judgment chamber.

Or a slaughterhouse.

The space had been arranged into something like a temporary office: folding plastic tables and chairs sat around the edges. At the innermost point a smaller, round table sat apart from the others: Shun's station.

Wu recognized the setup. This was something the Silver Mountain and other organizations did frequently in Asia as well: use unfinished real estate projects for other business purposes. It let them shift operation centers around, confounding outsiders, and the completion of construction would erase evidence.

The other men and women present at the tables when they'd arrived had retreated to the stairs leading down from the ground level, giving them a measure of privacy. It also afforded everybody involved a level of plausible deniability. _Why, no, officer. I didn't see what happened to those two. Did you say they're corpses now? My, how tragic._

Except Tiger Shun's reaction to the news of the day seemed restrained. His face a mask of solemn steel, Shun set the phone aside. "Elder Luo helped sponsor me, taught me. I owed much to his wisdom. And now he is gone."

Wu said nothing; speaking at this point would probably be like firing rounds off in a dark room packed with nitroglycerin. Sure, nothing might come of it, but no reason to do something that stupid.

And yet… Shun seemed less perturbed than he should have been at that statement. The Silver Mountain leader looked between Wu and Xiao Ma for a moment, his eyes flat. "What's done is done. The current flows on. And Marco Fabbro has shown just how much respect he has for the traditions and institutions of our world. His duplicitousness is revealed for all to see." He looked at Xiao Ma and beckoned her forward with two fingers. "And now we are free to unleash hostilities once again."

So that was what he'd been planning for, Wu thought. _You cold bastard._ Shun lifted a tablet up to Xiao Ma. She took the device and tapped at it for several minutes, during which Wu kept his breathing slow and relaxed.

Xiao Ma circled the table and took her usual spot at Shun's side. "A new target, Wu- _cike_. Something for tonight."

And implicitly, a chance to make up for the death of an Elder and three guests. He nodded once.

"Someone close to Fabbro," said Shun. "A wastrel, recently come to these shores."

"Julius Tracitus," said Xiao Ma, her attention still on the device. "A cousin of Fabbro's, typically in Italy. Currently he spends a great deal of time handling various interests for Fabbro. That is, during the day. At night, he appears fond of Silken."

"You say that like I should know what it is," Wu said.

"Of course, my apologies," she said. "Silken is a club of… wantonness and debauchery."

"Doesn't that describe just about every nightclub ever?"

"Do not be overly flippant," said Shun.

"Silken is a place of indulgence in the flesh," Xiao Ma said. "All manner of individuals for sale, and all sorts of… displays are openly encouraged. It is initiated in the currents of our realm, so perhaps a certain measure of caution is warranted."

"And you're confident Tracitus will be there tonight?" asked Wu.

"It would not be much of a guess," she replied. "His appetites are prodigious. He has been spotted visiting Silken just about every other night. If the pattern holds true, this night is one of his scheduled recreational ones."

"You've been watching him for a while," Wu said. "Even before I reported about him."

"Hmm." Shun nodded. "Let that be a lesson. Mister Tracitus has made little effort to hide his association with Fabbro. Foolish of him. He was easy to surveil."

"And this club. What kind of security?"

"Rather heavy outside," said Xiao Ma. "Silken is quite exclusive. Getting in is difficult without membership, and membership is not a quick process."

"How'd Tracitus get in then?"

"Perhaps benefitting from Fabbro's membership?" She shrugged, then tapped several times more at the tablet. "Once inside the club, security is… considerably more lax. Too much might put a damper on the festivities, after all."

"How is this place not a bloodbath?" Wu wondered. "It sounds like it'd have to be neutral ground."

"It is not," Shun said. "Technically."

"'Technically'? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Silken does not possess the same ironclad rules as the Continental," said Xiao Ma, "but it also entertains a broader range of clientele. Many of them are figures of note. Outside of our specific societies, that is. Those who cause disturbances on the premises typically find themselves unwelcome from then on. That also causes repercussions outside, which said clientele can often ill afford."

"Oh, hell. You're talking about government."

She nodded. "Silken prides itself on debauchery within coupled with the utmost discretion without. Its members must bear in mind that such a blade cuts both ways."

"But that's less of a concern for me as an outsider. I see." Wu tapped his lips. "Any suggestions for me to get inside?"

"Of course. You'll attend as my guest."

Wu snapped his gaze back to Xiao Ma. "Excuse me?"

"It is the easiest way, after all. I can get you in with little issue. Of course, once inside you shall attend to this work on your own," Xiao Ma said. "Do be discrete, Wu- _cike._ I enjoy my membership, and would be most displeased if something were to jeopardize that."

 _Great._ "So you want it done quietly as well."

"Indeed."

"Anything else?"

"Do not fail in this," Shun said, leaning forward in his seat. "The life of one of our Elders was gambled for this opportunity. They think themselves victorious in this moment, and that drives men to arrogance and carelessness. Show them the error of their ways."


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Unlike many other clubs, Silken didn't have much of a line even though by this hour it should have been prime time for the intoxicated and horny to be queuing up. Of course, given Silken's quiet reputation and exclusivity, that wasn't terribly surprising. The rarefied crowd that made up their members didn't like mingling with the commoners, after all. Unless it was to mingle bodily fluids on their terms, of course.

Like most clubs that at least shared some intersection with the underworld, Silken had one entrance for public attendees, such as they were, and another one for the elite, powerful, and connected. In this case, standing members. Rizzi swept past the people in line at the public entrance and walked straight to the private one, where a pair of suited heavies stood before a smooth, featureless door. The one on the left held a hand up as she approached. "This is for members only, ma'am. You'll have to wait in line for admittance."

"I'm here representing Marco Fabbro," she said.

The other one frowned. "I'm afraid that doesn't mean anything. Anybody could drop a name."

"I'm here to meet Julius Tracitus. Does that ring a bell? If you force me to call Fabbro, I guarantee all our evenings are going to get much more unpleasant."

The two exchanged glances, and then the left guard shifted aside. "Alright. But, uh, fair warning, ma'am. If you're here for Mister Tracitus' pleasure, you should probably expect your evening to get unpleasant anyways." The right guard slipped a key into the door and held it open.

 _It already has._ Rizzi stepped past and entered Silken. The heady stench of narcotics and sex hit her nose like a wall while throbbing, pulsing music (or what passed for it) assailed her ears. The private entrance led to a little greeting area where a hostess in what could charitably be described as a dress waited. "Welcome." She gave Rizzi a smile that ought to be illegal in and of itself, her hand drawing a trail down from her chest to her belly. "You're new here, yes? I'm familiar with our members. Would you like a tour or introduction?"

"That won't be necessary," Rizzi said. "I'm not here for that. I'm here for Julius Tracitus. He should be here under-"

"Mister Fabbro's membership, yes." The hostess nodded, scanning briefly over a ledger. "Would you like to be escorted to his room?"

"Just give me some directions."

"Of course. Through there, on the left will be some stairs leading up to the private sections. Mister Fabbro's room is on the opposite side, Room Nineteen."

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it." The hostess gave her that smile again. "If you change your mind, do let me know. I'm confident I can find _somebody_ to satisfy you."

"That won't be necessary."

Marching past and up the stairs, Rizzi stalked up to the second floor – and gaped momentarily at the sight before her eyes. The stairs had led to an elevated walkway tracing the perimeter of the primary chamber that comprised Silken. She realized she might be a tad overdressed for the place, on account of wearing… well, any clothing at all. The floor itself was a writhing mass of flesh; men and women entwined in a bacchanalian frenzy of… _lovemaking_ was the wrong term. That was too personal, too intimate. It implied some measure of emotional connection between the participants. This was… animalistic, almost mechanistic. She couldn't tell one person from another, so jammed together were they all.

Pockets of space showcased devices and contraptions of erotic purpose. All of them had small crowds clustered around them, eagerly using the people strapped down. Gorgeous young men and women in scanty versions of servers' uniforms navigated around the edges of the fleshy mass, bearing trays of drinks. Rizzi tore her eyes away from the orgiastic display. She circled around the edge of the walkway, the lights overhead dim but warm, affording those on the second story – the members, undoubtedly – a measure of privacy. Over on the far side the walkway opened up to a curtained stage, where another group gathered around to bid on men and women standing on display. Her lip curled in distaste; more than one person up on the stage had a frightened, resigned expression on their faces.

She kept going past that as well, moving to where the open room branched off to the halls leading to the private rooms. Moans, cries, and giggles sounded from behind a number of the doors she passed. The décor was actually quite tasteful, she thought, clean lines and curves with warm colors and soft lights. Rizzi found Door Nineteen and reached for the doorknob, then thought better of it and knocked twice.

"Come in."

Rizzi opened the door and slipped in to what looked like a high-end hotel room, similar to the Continental. Bed, minibar, luxurious furnishings. Of course, the various restraints, rows of tools, and discrete syringe disposal box were different. As was the shapely redhead in cuffs and a blindfold splayed out on the bed. Tracitus, thank _God_ , still had a robe on. He looked up as she entered the room. "Susan, Susan, Susan. How lovely."

"Alright, I'm here. What did you want to talk about?"

* * *

The car rolled to a stop before the entrance. Wu climbed out of the passenger seat and opened the rear door. Xiao Ma stepped out, nearly unrecognizable from her typical demure outfits. She wore a slinky black dress that left little to the imagination and seemed taller with her hair done up in an elaborate coif and stiletto heels on her feet. Wu took the handbag she held out to him. "One more thing," she said, and reached into the bag. Xiao Ma retrieved a leather collar with a coiled-up leash and smirked at him.

Wu pressed his lips together. "Is this necessary?"

"Perhaps not _strictly,_ " she admitted with a pout, "but it would be more convincing to pass you off as my… accessory for the evening. Surely your professional pride can endure?"

"Fine." Wu reached for the color but she drew it back. He sighed, lowered his hand, and bared his neck.

"I've been looking forward to this," Xiao Ma said as she fastened the strip of leather on him. She hefted the leash and spun to face Silken's entrance. She took two steps, exaggerating the sashay of her hips, and tugged the leash over her shoulder. "Come."

* * *

"Have a drink," Tracitus said, waving a hand at the minibar. "It's a pleasure to see you."

"I'll pass," Rizzi said. "Now, what did you want to talk to me about?"

"Nothing-" Tracitus glanced at the bound woman on the bed. "Nothing business related. I just thought it was about time we got that drink together, hmm?"

"This is a… social call?" Her stomach sank into a mix of anger and dread.

"Sure, social. Look, you've done your work for the day. Time to play, right?" He stepped closer, running his gaze over her body.

"That's not happening," she replied, feeling the scowl crease her face despite her best efforts.

"Oh, still playing hard to get, are we? Come on, babe, live a little. You'll have a good time. Now, I know Marco's been running you ragged. You ought to have some fun. Relax."

Rizzi shook her head. "It wouldn't be-"

"Proper? Come on, Marco doesn't mind. Hell, I'm sure I could spin it as a positive, you know? Make it sound like you needed to recharge." He leered. "Although, pretty sure you're gonna be anything but after I'm through with you."

She shook her head. "I'd thought about it saying it like that. Now, I think I'll phrase it like: over my dead body."

Tracitus' face turned cold and cruel. "Who do you think you are, bitch? You work for-"

"Not you. You aren't Fabbro and I have no contract with you. And even if I did, I wouldn't sleep with you."

His expression grew harsher by the second. "What? Think you're too good for me, is that it?"

"Let's just say I'm really not interested in finding out." Rizzi turned around, reached for the door, and-

A hand slammed into the door. "Where do you think you're going?" Tracitus said.

"This is a waste of time." She glared at the man. "Move your hand or I'll do it for you."

Tracitus glared back for a second, then his gaze flickered away and he let his hand drop away. "Walk out of here you'll regret it."

"Compared to the alternative? I doubt that."

Rizzi stormed from the room, shaking her head as she made her way out. She halted partway up the hall as she approached the auction room. Elijah Wu stood there in the small crowd, with a collar around his neck. Susan felt her eyes grow to the size of saucers. Her first thought was, _what the hell?_ Her second thought was a sudden desire to be the one holding that leash, to drag him into one of the rooms here and- _Where the hell did that come from?_

She glanced over at the person actually holding the leash; it took her a second to recognize the slight little Chinese woman. The one she'd left in Huo's apartment. What was her name? Xiao Mei? No, Xiao Ma. Dressed like… well, like somebody who fit in at Silken. She was currently speaking to Wu, leaning in ever so slightly even as she looked elsewhere. Rizzi felt one irrational flare of jealousy – and… anger? Betrayal?

 _Come off it,_ she told herself. _It's not your business how he spends his off-hours. There's nothing happening between you two anyways._

And then his eyes met hers, and she saw them widen to match hers as well. He stared at her for a second, then darted his gaze over to Xiao Ma ever so briefly. Elijah looked back at her – and shook his head almost imperceptibly. She took in the leather handbag he held – and the thin black gloves he wore.

A jolt ran down Rizzi's spine; this was something business-related, she felt certain. She almost reached for her gun, then rethought the decision to draw in a crowded environment. Moving gingerly, she left the hallway and left the auction room, moving past Wu without acknowledging the other assassin. From the corner of her eye she saw Xiao Ma give her an appraising look and run the tip of her tongue over her lips. Making her way around the walkway and the ongoing orgy below, she hurried through the club for the exit.

* * *

Wu tore his eyes from the display going on beneath them, trying to keep up with Xiao Ma. Her heels rang off the polished hardwood floor in a staccato beat and she tugged him along with the leash, albeit not unkindly. The walkway led to a stage filled with people and another crowd, this one actually dressed – for the most part.

"Do you prefer the company of men or women?" Xiao Ma asked suddenly.

He glanced over at her. "Do I what now? What do you mean?"

"For _fucking_ , of course," she said, licking her lips. "Men or women?"

Wu glanced around the nightclub. People in all sorts of fetish wear drifted past, many of them calling out bids for those on the stage. A series of hallways led away to the rooms.

"Wu- _cike_?" Xiao Ma's voice came again over the pulsing music below; she'd leaned in closer. "Your preference?"

"Women," he said absently, still looking around, for any sign of somebody matching the pictures of Tracitus he'd seen from the Silver Mountain intel and the burned-out train station.

"Hmm," she purred. "Just what I was in the mood for tonight." Stepping closer to the stage, she extended an arm and lifted a finger towards a brunette whose negligee showed off her legs. She crooked her finger and looked over to the woman in a sheer evening dress and mask, who nodded and withdrew the chosen girl from the stage.

Wu looked away. _Focus on the job,_ he told himself. He turned his gaze to one hall, where Susan Rizzi stood in the middle of it, staring at him. _What is she doing here?_ She looked tense – and dressed in a way that suggested business, not pleasure. He bit his tongue and glanced over at Xiao Ma. She didn't seem to have noticed anything amiss. Flicking his gaze back to Rizzi, he gave her the faintest shake of his head.

Rizzi paused, then started walking towards them. She passed by him an arm's length away without looking at him, heading back towards the entrance. Wu held himself very still, breathing shallowly and giving no sign of recognition.

"To my room," Xiao Ma said, tugging at his leash again. "The scenic route, I think."

"Which way?" he said quietly.

She led the way up the hall Rizzi had come from. "Room Nineteen is Marco Fabbro's," Xiao Ma said, her voice equally low. "Just up here."

They heard it as they approached. "That bitch," said a voice from inside the room. "Thinks she's too good for me, huh? Thinks she's better? Just cause she's working for us? Just cause she wacked that chink leader today?" The impact of a blow on flesh sounded through the door, even over the ambient noise of Silken.

Xiao Ma halted and looked over at Wu, her eyes as wide as Rizzi's had been minutes earlier. "Today's assassin," she murmured.

A grunt came from the room, a grunt of animal rutting. "Who's probably not here," said Wu, "if he's taking his frustrations out on whoever's in the room."

She started moving again, swiftly enough that it forced him to take two quick steps to catch up with the leash. Xiao Ma led the way to another door and strolled in. The woman she'd selected from the auction stage waited inside the hotel-styled room, kneeling demurely on the bed that took up much of the space. Xiao Ma stretched a hand towards her, beckoning with her fingertips. "Maya," she said. "It has been too long."

"Mistress Xiao," said the girl, shuffling forward on her knees with sultry rolls of her hips. "You always make me want to play." She turned her gaze on Wu, giving him a smoldering smile. "And what's this? Have you brought a new toy? Are we going to have fun tonight?"

The look Xiao Ma gave him went way, _way_ beyond professionalism. "Oh, I certainly hope so. But… pet has an errand to go on first, hmm?" She tugged Wu close and unclipped the leash from his collar, leaning in to flick her tongue across the top of his ear.

He pulled back, placed the handbag on the bed, and stepped out as Xiao Ma moved in close to Maya and cupped her chin. He shut the door, shook himself once to get rid of… distracting impulses, and continued on.

He had a job to do.

As he moved down the hall Wu drew his weapon. It didn't look like one; the hypodermic syringe at the end made it look like an exotic injector for any array of recreational substances. Just the way it was meant to.

His hands worked at the devices as each footstep drew him closer to the target's room. He stripped a canister and tubing from the underbarrel, peeled off the thin plastic shell shrouding the top and rear, and unscrewed the syringe array from the muzzle. Each little piece went into a suit pocket as he took them apart. A black tube with a grip and trigger remained in his hands. The gun was based on the Welrod, an old invention of the Brits for their insurgency campaigns during the Second World War. The entire barrel was practically an integral silencer and its rotary bolt had to be cycled by hand after each shot. Between that and its pathetic magazine capacity the little pistol was horrifically impractical for a firefight. But with the design of its suppressor and the lack of moving parts slamming together every time somebody pressed the trigger, it was supremely quiet.

Wu halted at the door they'd marked and listened. A rhythmic, animalistic grunting came from within, almost savage and angry in its force. He tested the door knob slowly, gently. Unlocked. This Tracitus fellow had a death wish.

Well, he could oblige that.

He opened the door quickly and silently, sidestepping into the room and pushing the door shut softly. A couple was, uh, _occupied_ on the bed. The naked man knelt behind a blindfolded and restrained woman on her elbows and knees, one fist entwined in her hair as he thrust into her from behind furiously. Quiet sobs escaped past the gag in her mouth. Neither seemed to have noticed his entrance for the moment.

Wu raised the pistol.

The movement drew Tracitus' attention. His head snapped over, eyes wide and furious, mouth opening to- Wu pressed the trigger. The specialized pistol let out a metallic cough and Tracitus jerked back, releasing the bound woman as his throat erupted in blood.

Falling backwards onto the bed, Tracitus choked and gurgled while the woman gave a confused groan, swinging her head around back and forth. Wu gripped the knurled knob at the end of the pistol and turned it to the left, then tugged the bolt back. He dumped the empty shell casing into the palm of his empty hand, tucked that into his pocket, and then slammed the heel of his hand into the knob, shoving the bolt forward. He rotated the knob to the right, sealing the bolt, and then stepped closer to the bed. Tracitus stared up at him, one hand clutching at his ruined throat while the other grasped for his pants with their holstered pistol – which lay a meter away on the floor.

Wu lined the pistol up again and pressed the trigger. Tracitus fell silent as the subsonic nine-millimeter round punched through his nasal cavity and made even more of a mess on the sheets. The redheaded woman on the bed was sobbing openly now. He cycled the pistol again, being sure to collect the empty casing, and started to take aim.

He paused. This woman wasn't a target. She wasn't a witness. She wasn't even really a bystander. She was a victim, a person being used and abused. Elijah lowered the pistol. "It's okay," he said quietly. "I'm not here to hurt you."

She went still at that. Not calm and collected, more like an animal suddenly confronted by a predator.

"Will the club send somebody to check on you?"

She hesitated, then gave a jerky nod.

"Good. Sorry about this, but I'm going to leave the restraints then. You saw nothing and could do nothing, understand?"

Another nod, quicker and more eager this time.

Wu left the room, holstered the pistol, and returned to Xiao Ma's room. Nobody seemed any the wiser; the festivities continued unabated with a desperate, hollow frenzy of its own. He cracked the door open and slipped in. Xiao Ma lay slumped against the head of the bed. She'd stripped out of her dress and had Maya crouched before her. The other woman had her head buried between Xiao Ma's spread legs. She lifted an eyebrow, cooed as Maya did _something_ with her tongue, and said, "The errand?"

"Complete," said Wu.

"Excellent." She crooked a finger at him. "Join us? You have earned a celebration, I think."

It was tempting, more so than he wanted to admit to himself. She – this whole place – promised no strings attached, no commitment, no restraint.

And no fulfillment.

Elijah reached up and undid the collar, tossing it onto the bed. "I'm done here," he said, and left.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

She gave the leash a tug, dragging Elijah's face closer. His lips met hers while his hand trailed up her inner thigh between her legs and she moaned as she tightened the suppressor over the muzzle of her pistol behind her back. He kissed his way down her naked body, sloppy and wet, raising his eyes to meet hers. She hooked a finger through the collar around his neck, slid down the length of his body, and rolled them over so she straddled him, panting all the while.

Then she raised her pistol and shot him between the eyes.

Susan's eyes snapped open and returned her to the reality of bedsheets tangled around her body and sunlight streaming in through the Continental's windows. Her pulse raced in her chest, like the bolt on a rifle cycling in automatic fire. Her garments clung to her skin and- Well, a change in underwear was definitely warranted. "Stupid club," she muttered. "Stupid waste of time. Stupid… collars."

She untangled herself and made her way to the bathroom, where she splashed some water on her face and stared at the reflection in the mirror. "Don't get any ideas," Susan told herself. Which, admittedly, was maybe a _little_ late, considering the state of her panties. Just a little bit. But nothing had really happened, one way or another. And it wasn't going to, she told her loins sternly. _Just because you ran into him at the craziest sex club in town and he was wearing a leash – ruff – no, stop it, doesn't mean-_ Her mental meandering came to an abrupt halt as Susan finally connected the dots. Elijah had possessed that almost indefinable air – that _aura_ – that she recognized from professionals at work. Now what could the Silver Mountain have been doing there right after one of their Elders had been assassinated?

Didn't exactly take a genius to figure that out, did it?"

"Tracitus," she muttered to her reflection. Well, maybe they'd been there for somebody else. Yeah, right.

"Fabbro is going to be thrilled about this."

* * *

"What the fuck happened?!" Fabbro bellowed. "I send you to talk to Julius and he winds up dead? How did that happen?"

Rizzi said nothing, just looked out towards the window of the decrepit old bank where Fabbro had set up an ops center. The light was fading into night, light drifts of snow coming down from the thick clouds overhead.

Fabbro seized a dagger from the array sitting before him on an old wooden table and hurled it at a target across the room. The throw went wide, thudding into the thick wood panel coating the old stone walls. "Explain to me," he said slowly, "what happened."

"I went to Silken," said Rizzi. "We exchanged words. I left."

"What did you talk about?"

"Nothing."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means we talked about nothing of consequence."

He glowered at her. "I think I'll be the judge of that, huh?"

"Fine." Rizzi glanced out the window again. "Tracitus wanted it to be a… social call. I disagreed. And like I said, I left."

"Did you see anything there?"

"You mean aside from the kinds of things that happen at Silken?"

Another glower. "I mean like another professional, doll. A hitter. One of the chinks."

Rizzi held still, let out a slow breath. "What do you mean?"

"This." Fabbro returned to the table and picked up a tablet. He held the screen up towards her. "Know him?"

It had a slightly blurry picture of Elijah Wu.

She took another slow breath. The photo must have come from yesterday; she recognized Wu's outfit as the one from Silken, albeit minus the collar. "He isn't a regular operator here," she said.

"No he's not. He's a sometime associate of the Silver Mountain out west. California and China and shit. So what am I to think when somebody like this shows up and then Julius turns up dead, huh? You see what's going on here, right?"

"He-"

"This little chink bastard waxed Julius," he said, waving the tablet around. He lifted a finger on his other hand. "But… he's just the triggerman. The attack dog. We both know who's really holding the leash, huh?"

She almost laughed at _that_ phrase. Keeping any sign from her face, she thought back to the morning's conversation.

* * *

It had been at their table in the Continental's dining room. Susan cleared her throat once the coffee and waffle arrived. "So," she began. "That collar…"

" _No,_ " Elijah said. "We're not discussing that."

"Oh come on. You have to give me _something_ here."

"No."

She made big doe eyes at him. "Are you trained to roll over for belly rubs?"

"Susan…" He rolled his eyes. "It was an infiltration thing. And not my idea."

"Are you saying you hated it?"

"It would depend on the context. I wouldn't hate it with the right person."

 _And who might that be,_ she almost said, barely stopping herself. "Implying the one holding the leash yesterday was not," she said cautiously.

He eyes her for a moment. "You sound… confused about that."

"She was a hell of a looker."

"You noticed?"

"Kind of hard not to," Susan admitted. "I may not swing that way, but… damn."

"Yeah, well, looks aren't everything. As a general rule, getting involved with aficionados of classical Chinese torture? Unwise."

"Silken's not the kind of place where people get _involved_ ," she pointed out. "Not beyond the physical sense anyways."

He shrugged. "Still unwise."

A sort of fluttering sensation twisted through Susan's chest. The caffeine, that must be it. "Wait, are you didn't you didn't sleep with her yesterday? She was practically- I mean, she _literally_ had you on a leash."

"You're very fixated on that," Elijah said.

She looked away, feeling the heat surging up her cheeks. "It's… just something you don't see every day."

"Are you kidding? Did you see what was going on there? Pretty sure a little strip of leather was the least of… anything. Should be pretty normal if you're a member there."

"Whoa!" she said, straightening. "Who says I'm a member?"

"Unless you've got an identical twin running around…"

Susan groaned in disgust. "It was supposed to be business. Turns out it was just some creep trying to get into my pants."

"Tracitus?" Elijah asked quietly.

She fiddled with her coffee cup for a moment. This… well, this wasn't _technically_ business, was it? "Did you kill the woman he was with?"

He tilted his head. "Was there a reason for me to?"

"There may not have been, but the absence of one wouldn't have stopped most of us."

"It stops me," Elijah said, his voice low and rough.

Susan tried to smother smile oozing up on her like warm honey.

* * *

And fought back the sour vinegar surging up now as Fabbro set the tablet down on the table and shoved it towards her carelessly. On reflex Rizzi reached out and caught the device as it slid over the edge of the table. She looked back up at Fabbro, who had plucked up another throwing knife.

"Julius was my kin. My blood." Fabbro slammed the knife into the table point-first, leaving the slim metal handle quivering in the air. "They say nobody does vengeance like us Italians, huh? But maybe it's not the time for that right now."

"No?"

"Silver Mountain is ultimately to blame, yeah." Fabbro picked up another knife and fiddled with the tip, scoring a line in the table with an idle swipe. "And I know that, but still…" He slammed that knife into the table as well. "Julius was family. Forget that chink Elder."

"Okay…" The vinegar turned into a quiet, dreadful sense of inevitability.

"Word is there were two from the Silver Mountain at Silken. This fellow and another one: some woman. Don't have much about her yet. But for now… kill Mister Wu."

* * *

"It appears we share certain things with Fabbro," Eighth Tiger said. "Things like some of the methods with which we wage war in the shadows. Xiao Ma spoke of what you overheard last night."

At Shun's side she nodded. Xiao Ma had gone back to her typical demure dress and attitude, in stark contrast to her attire at Silken. "Did you see the other _cike_ yesterday?"

Wu breathed slowly and calmly, like running a firing drill at the range. "What do you mean?"

"At Silken. Did you see her?"

He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

She gave a little _tsk_ of disappointment with her tongue. "The woman in the coat. She came from Tracitus' room, did you not see? She walked right by us at one point."

The world compressed into the sudden blade in his gut. _Damn it all._ "What makes you think it was her?" he said, mouth dry.

"You saw the way she moved, yes?"

Wu nodded.

"She was not one of the vapid doxies at the club, seeking nothing but self-amusement," said Xiao Ma. "She moved with purpose, with power."

"There is more," Shun added. "An image of the killer from yesterday, provided by… outside sources." He nodded to Xiao Ma, who flipped a tablet around to display-

The picture must have been taken yesterday; he recognized the athletic wear, hood, and pack. She was making her way down a street, mid-stride and shoulders hunched forward as if warding off the cold.

"She is known to us," said Shun. "A frequent operator in this city. It is a shame she chose to work with Fabbro; her skills would have been useful."

"Now she is the next target," Xiao Ma said. "A waste."

"What about-" Wu cleared his throat. "What about luring her away from Fabbro's service?"

"Perhaps you are unaware of her reputation," Shun said, his mouth twisting like he was caught between respect and displeasure. "She possesses… integrity. Furthermore, she is responsible for the death of one of our Elders. Such a thing is not easily forgotten, nor forgiven."

 _Oh, damn it all._

"This is unlikely to be an easy task," Shun continued, "but I believe you are equal to the challenge. Kill this Susan Rizzi."

* * *

The chill of the night sank into everything. It made Susan grateful for her coat as she walked back towards the Continental. She'd hopped off the subway early, blocks away from the underworld hotel, to walk the rest of the way and hopefully clear her head. At this time of night the fog dispersed all the lights into softly glowing haloes like an out-of-focus photograph. _Fitting_ , she thought. Strange, how quickly things got unclear. _You knew this was coming._

Snow drifted down in individual flakes, melting upon impact with the streets. She was just passing a subway entrance several blocks from the hotel when Wu climbed up out of the staircase at the tail end of a crowd of pedestrians. _Of all the luck._

He halted, his jaw tensing. "Susan," he said with a nod.

"Hey, you." She smiled briefly despite herself. They stood at arm's length in silence while the other people dispersed their separate ways. At this hour there were far fewer than usual.

"You heading back to the hotel?" Elijah asked.

"Yeah." By unspoken agreement they walked off towards the Continental together. The fog closed in, thicker than ever.

 _Just do it now_ , she thought, glancing around. There was nobody close. It would be so easy – just fall back a half-step. That would be all the time she needed to draw and put a bullet into this head. With the fog and the night, escape should be easy. Just a straight run to the Continental and that would be that. _Complete the contract now._

But she didn't do it, even as she silently railed at herself for the inaction. Halfway to the Continental her stomach growled and Susan realized she hadn't eaten anything since the morning. Elijah glanced over at her and grinned. "You hungry?"

"A little peckish," she admitted. "You?"

"I could go for a bite. Even if it is late."

"Weird schedules are only weird until they become normal. Then you just accept it."

"Hmm. And what other things are like that with this life of ours?"

"I think-" Her throat tightened suddenly. "I think that's something each one of us can only answer for ourselves."

He glanced over at her again, a shadowed look on his face. They walked the rest of the way in silence, and Susan felt a curious relief as they headed up the front steps. It took her a moment to recognize why: the Continental's rules ensured that she couldn't make a move on Wu while they were both on hotel grounds.

It took another moment to admit to herself that the fact made her inordinately happy.

The lobby was partly dimmed as they entered, but the seemingly ever-present Charon manned the front desk as always. He looked up as they approached. "How may I be of assistance?"

"Is the kitchen still open?" Susan asked.

"Of course. I'll have them prepare a table. You should be aware, however, that certain items may exceed customary wait times at this hour."

"That's fine. We're not looking for anything too fancy anyways."

"Do enjoy."

* * *

They sat at a lone table, surrounded by others with inverted chairs placed on top. At this hour people were gathering in the speakeasy below rather than the dining room. The overhead lights were still dimmed and the little lamp atop their table formed a beacon like a lighthouse amid a night sea. The young woman who was their server brought the platter of bread and fruit they'd ordered, set it between them, and disappeared back into the kitchen. Susan gave a small smile at the sight of the rolled-up textbook sticking from her back pocket behind the apron.

"Reminds me of my little cousin," Elijah said, following her gaze. "Always running around with a book in hand."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Susan said.

"Not at all." Elijah looked wistful for a moment. "She's studying mechanical engineering at Peking University now. God knows she'll have a more normal life than me."

"Sometimes I'm not sure I'd ever know what that looks like." She dragged a torn piece of bread through a saucer of balsamic vinegar and popped it into her mouth, puckering at the intense, syrupy sourness. "Peking University, huh? Does she know what you do?"

"Of course not." Elijah bit into a fig and shook his head. "I wouldn't do that to her."

"What does she know of you, then?"

He shrugged. "That I help pay her tuition. We talk sometimes, but she's busy these days. And there's a lot I can't tell her, of course."

"I can imagine. So you pay her tuition? What does she think you do?"

"Some kind of business consulting or the other. You know, something vague, lots of 'projects' and 'clients' and travel."

"Consulting." Susan nibbled on a grape. "I guess that's sort of true, from a certain angle."

"As long as she doesn't pry too much, things work out. How about you? No dependents secreted away?"

She shook her head.

"No family?"

She thought back to Sam's last message, a brief little video recorded on a phone in the middle of an FOB. "I had a brother."

"'Had'?"

"He was killed in Iraq."

"I'm sorry."

"For what? You had nothing to do with it."

"For whatever pain it's caused," he said after a moment.

Now it was Susan's turn to shrug. "Death is the only constant in this life. We deal it and pay it. It touches everything about us."

Elijah nodded soberly. "You're not wrong."

They ate in silence over the next minutes, an island of quiet activity in the still, dark room that had taken on a sudden sepulchral quality. She finished another grape and stared at him. _Why am I doing this?_

"Speaking of death," she said, clearing her throat, "you have a contract on you."

"Fabbro?"

"Yes."

"He tasked you?" His voice was no more excited than if he was ordering another plate of fruit. He bit into the crust of a bread chunk; its crackle echoed in the room.

"Yes," she admitted, leaning back into her seat. "You seem to be taking the news well."

"That Fabbro wants me dead?" he said with a snort. "Not exactly news. It's almost insulting that it took this long."

"And you aren't worried I'll collect?"

Elijah paused, fiddled with the piece of bread. He looked into her eyes. "You had plenty of opportunity on the walk back here."

She said nothing.

"So why tell me?"

 _Because I was a fool and let myself get too close._ Susan said, "Professional courtesy."

"I see." He took a sip of water. "Then I should also warn you that that Silver Mountain is after you."

"Are they?"

"You killed one of their Elders, Susan. Shun looked up to him as a mentor. He's not happy about it."

"So why tell me?" she echoed. "And you had just as much opportunity on the walk here."

He held her gaze for a long minute. "Maybe they're wrong about the details of the shooter."

"Uh huh. We both know that's a crock of-"

"Maybe it's reciprocity," he said. "Courtesy for courtesy. Or maybe I don't want to kill you."

"I'd love to see you try it," Susan said, but she realized it was more a reflexive response than anything.

"You sure about that?" Elijah sighed and glanced away. "I'm not keen to find out one way or the other. Are you?"

"I'll let you know next time we run into each other outside the Continental."

"Deal." Elijah finished off the last fig and pushed his chair back. "I'll have them send the bill to my room."

Susan shook her head. "This was my idea." She ate one more grape, wiped her lips with the napkin, and stood to match him. "I've got it. Why are you always so insistent on trying to get the check, anyway?"

"You've obviously never been to a group dinner involving multiple Chinese families. The struggles to be the one who comes away with the bill would put this current mess to shame." He grunted. "It's a face thing. Appearances and all that."

"Does it matter that much to you? I didn't think you cared much for all that."

"Not particularly, but some appearances have to be kept. Especially when it affects business."

"And is this business?"

"This? It's personal," Elijah said. "Extend a lady every courtesy."

"I can handle myself." Susan sighed, and then laughed tiredly. "Look at us, arguing over who picks up the tab while we have contracts on each other. The model of professionalism, we are."

He chuckled, sounding about as weary as she felt. "Fine. Whoever survives all this gets the bill."

"Deal." She smiled lopsidedly at him. "Alright, I'm ready to call it a night."

"Same here." Elijah grabbed the decimated platters. Curious, Susan followed him towards the door the server had come from. She stepped forward and pushed the dark red swing door open. The little prep room inside that divided the dining room from the kitchen had a counter running across it for ready dishes.

The young woman sitting at the counter leapt up from the textbook she'd been poring over. "Oh, I'm so sorry sir!"

"Relax," Elijah said. "These aren't exactly normal hours."

"I'd better take those."

"What are you studying?" he asked as she reached for the plates.

"Biology," she said, grinning shyly. "Trauma surgery. This pays the bills."

"Impressive. Keep at it."

"And don't get any deeper with all this if you don't have to," Susan said from the doorway. "Get what you need, then move on with your life."

The Continental worker blinked at her, then nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. The two assassins walked back the other way toward the lobby and elevators.

"She may not have a choice," Elijah said as they walked together through the corridor.

"I know."

"Getting in- or out – isn't that simple."

"I know."

He let out a long, slow sigh. "Sometimes it seems like this life chooses you, rather than the other way around."

Susan glanced over at him as they passed through a patch of shadow. "I think you may be right."

* * *

The elevator seemed to take a silent eternity to arrive. Elijah hauled the crosshatched gate shut while Susan hit their floor's button. She faced forward, pointedly not looking at him. The journey upwards took equally as long – or so it felt.

She turned in surprise and alarm as Elijah started laughing partway up. His laughter held a manic edge and she found her hand drifting for her gun.

"Sorry," he said once he'd regained control. "I'm tired, and it's just… this is the calmest elevator ride I've ever shared with somebody who was supposed to kill me."

"Continental rules, remember?" The stippled texture of her pistol's grip dug into her hand. She forced herself to release it and the breath she'd been holding.

"Yeah." He cocked his head, looking at her. "Should I expect the same outside?"

The elevator slid to a halt. "I… don't want to kill you either," she finally said.

Elijah slid the gate open. "But you're contractually obligated."

"There is that," she acknowledged, nodding as they paced each other abreast towards their rooms.

They stopped before their facing doors. "So I guess we'll see what happens then."

"I guess we will." Susan dug her keycard from a pocket, turning away to the door as Elijah did likewise. She never knew why she turned back, wasn't even aware of making the decision to reach out. She was only aware of her fingertips brushing against the back of his shoulder, of the barest contact for a split second. It was enough; Elijah whirled-

And kissed her, lips and breath hot and hungry on hers. It went on and on, his body pressing against hers as one hand circled her waist and pulled her even tighter, the other caressing her cheek with a gentleness that belied the calluses on his hand. She slid one hand up between them, meaning to push him away, but the treacherous appendage had a mind of its own, stroking across his firm chest. Her other hand had also traveled on its own accord to cup the back of his neck.

They finally broke apart, breathing heavily. "This is a bad idea," she whispered, lips centimeters from his.

"Yes it is." He stared into her eyes and she saw her confusion and desire mirrored in his gaze.

The distance between them melted away as she tugged him in for another kiss. She took a step back, pulling Elijah along with a force only slightly less than a takedown towards her room. Her back hit the door with a thud and she fumbled for the keycard slot as his hands ran over her body, their lips in contact all the while. She finally found the slit; the lock clicked open and the door opened to a gentle rear kick. The pressure of his body against hers swept them into her room like a flood. She barely had the presence of mind to shove the door shut as his kisses drifted across her chin and started nipping at her neck. Tremors ran down her spine like aftershocks. He must have hit the light switch, for she certainly had no memory of reaching out for it when the room lit up.

 _What am I doing?_ She tried to focus – something rendered fantastically difficult by his fingers and lips. Susan paused, pulling away from Elijah with an effort. She held a finger to his lips. "It's been a long time since I've done this," she admitted, as much to herself as to him.

"This?" he said, lifting an eyebrow. "Pretty sure it's instinctive."

"No, I mean… letting someone in."

To her mild surprise he neither mocked her nor grew confused. Instead he reached down and took her hand, brought it up to his lips in a gentle kiss and held it there, tickling her knuckles with the warmth of his breath. "I understand," he murmured.

"It's too much of a risk," she said. "Getting close to somebody isn't-"

"I know." He nodded. "We could always be one contract away from killing each other."

"Like right now?"

"Like right now." He let out a ragged breath, taking a half-step back. "You're right, this is a bad idea. I should go."

"Don't you dare." Susan pulled him into another kiss, drawing close with a desperation she hadn't known she possessed.

* * *

She woke with a start. Unfamiliar warmth pressed against her from behind. Flesh: the contradictory firmness and softness that was a human body. The disorientation of exhausted slumber ceded to growing awareness. Susan realized she lay on her side, atop the rumpled bedsheets. She had one hand reaching back far enough that it couldn't be her leg it was resting on. Nor was it her hand cupping one bare breast.

Susan shifted, turning her neck to look back at the person cradling her from behind. Elijah Wu had a serene look on his slumbering face, a sort of detached calm she suspected few in their profession could genuinely possess while awake. And befitting one in their world, her movements proved enough to disturb his sleep. His eyes sprang open, darting around in frantic reorientation. Elijah's arms tightened, drawing her deeper into the embrace they'd ended up in. The action made his palm stroke across her breast and she released a murmur of sudden arousal.

"Wha-" Elijah blinked, his eyes focusing on Susan's face. "Oh."

"Oh." She grinned, part shyness and part seductive. "Hi."

"We, uh." He returned the grin, still holding onto her from behind. Then he leaned in and planted a soft kiss on her shoulder, making her squirm as he advanced into the crook of her neck.

Susan writhed against him, feeling the heat of his own arousal press against her. "Looks like you're ready for another go."

His grasp around her tightened for a moment as he kissed the corner of her jaw from behind. His breath tickled her ear before he rolled away, reaching for another condom from the torn pack on the dresser top beside the bed.

* * *

Sprawled limbs and vestigial warmth filled the first instants of consciousness when Elijah awoke, early morning light filtering in through the window. Susan Rizzi lay on her stomach beside him, the repose of slumber making her bare shoulders rise and fall gently. A contented little half-smile peeked out from beneath the tussle of her dark hair. He let himself enjoy the sight for a moment; she looked like… a sight he wouldn't mind waking up to, a hazy potential like some half-glimpsed path through a thick fog.

And not at all like his next target.

Moving slowly and gently so as not to wake her, Elijah climbed out of the bed. This _was_ a bad idea; what the hell had he been thinking? He looked around for his underpants, locating them amid a pile of discarded clothes and weapons. What did he think was going to happen here? Why had he let himself get involved like this? _Foolish_ , he thought, looking back at Susan – at the pale curve of her spine, one outstretched arm toward where he'd laid, the swell of her bottom just peeking out from under the edge of the rumpled blanket.

By his obligations to the Silver Mountain, he should put two bullets into her head right now. But of course, there were the Continental's rules, he told himself. That was why. It had nothing to do with a desire to sit down at breakfast again, to just talk and smile and know her better. Nothing to do with a desire to get back into the bed and hold her. He slid into his pants, then bent down and picked up his pistol. The textured polymer of the grip filled his hand: familiar and rough like reality.

Elijah holstered the gun, gathered his things, and slipped out the door. He closed it gently behind him with a soft click.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Susan woke with a groan. Her body… it wasn't exactly protesting; more announcing that she was simultaneously sore, satisfied, and not entirely uneager for more. She rolled over, brushing hair from her face, and belatedly noticed that she was alone in the bed. Sitting up, she looked around the room. Her clothes lay strewn around the floor.

Elijah was gone.

Slumping back down against the headboard, she hugged her knees against her chest and drew the sheets up around her. "Okay," Susan muttered. "That happened."

* * *

One shower and fresh set of clothes later, she left her room. Stepping across the hall to Elijah's room, she raised her hand to knock on the door – and paused.

He'd left.

On his own. Without saying anything. _It doesn't mean anything_. She repeated that to herself over and over down the elevator and out through the exit. She found herself on the lookout, watching for any sign of Elijah – uncertain whether she did so from professional or personal reasons. Damned confusing, not knowing whether the next time she saw him she'd shoot him, yell at him, or start tearing his clothes off.

Rizzi shoved all of that aside as she made her way through the city; the knowledge that Silver Mountain now actively sought her head meant she had to be even more cautious.

 _Sleeping with your would-be assassin doesn't change anything._

Of course, sleeping with one's would-be assassin wasn't exactly… traditional. Was it?

She sighed, checking another street as she rounded the corner, moving swiftly. She didn't exactly have a plan, other than the knowledge that she was supposed to be hunting Elijah – Wu, she told herself – down. And the minor issue of not actually knowing if she even _wanted_ to find him, one way or another. But Fabbro had expectations. _Damn it all._

What, then? She had to look like she was on the job, at least. Searching for Wu: that meant Silver Mountain places. Chinatown? Out of the picture. Too heavily defended. Any trouble she started would get way out of hand, and fast. Somewhere else: one of the smaller outposts, like an office holding near the Financial District. Ostensibly it was some liaison office between American and Chinese companies. Yeah, sure.

The office sat on the eighth floor of one of the upscale towers, all gleaming steel and glass. Rizzi made her way through the brightly lit interior, passing through the Chinese-styled decorations and furniture to the reception desk where a studious-looking young man swiveled his gaze back and forth between the two monitors before him. She rapped her knuckles against the surface to get his attention. "I'd like to talk to the Silver Mountain representative."

His eyes widened and his arm slipped towards the underside of the table.

"Don't. I'm just here for a conversation with Hong," Rizzi said, her other hand gripping the pistol beneath her coat. "You go loud, you're not going to live long enough to even regret it."

He froze, stared at her for a minute, then nodded fractionally and retracted his arm. "Please wait here a moment," he said, rising to his feet and half-turning towards the doorway that led further in.

She retreated a half-step as the man strode off quickly; she kept a hand on her gun and her head on a swivel, moving to a position where she could cover all the doorways with minimal effort. Hong was… honorable in his own way, but that had been before she'd started putting bullets into Silver Mountain Elders. No telling what he might do now.

What he did two minutes later was step out into the lobby, accompanied nervously by the reception man. Hong Zhusheng was a slight man in an immaculate business suit that made his silvery hair stand out. "Miss Rizzi," Hong said. "I wish I could say it was a pleasure to see you again, but these are perhaps not the best circumstances, hmm?"

"Probably not," she said. "I'm not looking for trouble here and now. Is there someplace we can talk?"

"Of course." Hong gave a shallow bow and gestured for her to follow him.

He led Rizzi down a hallway to a corner office. Nodding to a couch against one wall, he circled his desk and took a seat. Rizzi sat, grateful that he hadn't insulted her by making her sit with her back to the door. "You've moved up in the world," she said.

Hong gave her a grim smile. "Please, do not think I am ungrateful for that matter with the Rollins sisters, but I must tell you." He glanced at his watch. "You have three minutes before a team arrives, regardless of what happens to me. I suggest you speak quickly."

"I want to know where Elijah Wu is. I know he's working with Shun."

"You seek him because?"

"Fabbro knows he's responsible for the job at Silken. He's a target."

Hong chucked. "I do not know whether I should be insulted or entertained by your audacity. You sided with Fabbro, and now you come to me for assistance against my fraternity?"

"It was worth a shot," she said, standing. "Well, I appreciate the time."

"Speaking of time." Hong looked at his watch again. "You have less than two minutes now."

Rizzi gave an instant's thought to just shooting him then and there. She dismissed it in the same instant; killing Hong would accomplish nothing. Instead she whirled and left the office at a dead run, sprinting through the halls.

The man at reception half-spun as she came rushing towards the lobby. He pulled a short-barreled shotgun from beneath the desk and came to his feet, pushing off from his office chair. Rizzi didn't slow as she dashed through. She wrenched the barrel of the shotgun aside with one hand, plucking it from the man's hand with a deft turn of her wrist. The elbow of her other arm slammed into his jaw. The man made an almost-graceful pirouette as he went down.

Rizzi kept running, racking the slide of the shotgun with each step before tossing the empty weapon aside. She ran to the elevators, mashed the down button, and ran for the staircase door. The tromp of footsteps coming down from above made her draw short and reverse course. Fortune smiled on her as one of the elevators arrived with a pleasant chime.

Rizzi threw herself into the elevator as the staircase door slammed open. Pounding the button for the ground floor, she caught a glimpse of suits and black hair charging towards her before the elevator doors slid shut. They weren't quite carrying open weapons, but the hands reaching beneath jackets told her everything. The elevator started downwards with a smooth roll.

Elevator. _Deathtrap, more like._ Using the waist-high rail as a step, she boosted herself up to the ceiling and ripped the rooftop hatch open. Rizzi pulled herself through the square opening and into the dark, musty confines of the elevator shaft. She leapt and grabbed onto the emergency ladder, holding on as the elevator continued its downward journey without her.

Rizzi climbed to the nearest set of floor doors, pried them open, and stepped out into the hallway to the astonished gaze of a pair of businesspeople. "They warned me they were having some technical issues with these things," she said, smiling politely, and moved on.

* * *

Wu checked in at the construction site where Tiger Shun was currently holding court. His breath left little puffs of vapor in the cold as he descended down to the basement. He waited while Shun paced between the workers lining the edges of the room, checking in quietly with each. Shun paused halfway between two people, pulled his phone from his pocket, and proceeded to have a quiet conversation of some length that Wu couldn't overhear.

Finally Shun turned to Wu and waved him forward as he walked towards the separate round table.

"Have you come to report success on the job?" Shun said quietly.

"No." Wu shook his head and leaned in, lowering his voice to match Shun's. "I haven't located her."

"Are you aware," said Shun, "that she is seeking you as well?"

Right, he wasn't supposed to know that. "What do you mean?"

"I just had a very interesting conversation with Old Man Hong. Are you familiar with him?"

Wu shook his head again.

"Unsurprising. He devotes his time and efforts here in the city. He had a visitor today: Susan Rizzi. She went to him asking for your whereabouts."

"Did she?"

"Hmm." Shun stroked his chin. "It seems Fabbro has knowledge of the contract against Tracitus."

"Well, that makes things interesting."

"Irritatingly so," Shun said. "Two hounds chasing each other do not catch the hare. But…" He glanced over at Wu, his gaze cold. "Can you take her?"

Wu pressed his lips together at that phrase. It would probably be better not to respond; there was every chance he'd say something wildly inappropriate and reveal certain details he really shouldn't.

"Well?" Shun said after a moment.

Forcing a confident grin onto his face, Wu nodded. "I believe I can."

"Good. If this is happening because of Tracitus, we may have a way to put this to use."

* * *

Once she lost the Silver Mountain team things slowed. Rizzi moved around the city, haphazardly and randomly. It fit with her mental state, she reflected darkly. From moment to moment she vacillated between wanting to find Elijah and wanting to avoid him.

She cursed herself again as the scant sunlight faded. _This is why you don't. Get. Involved. Idiot._

And again back at the hotel she found herself outside Elijah's door, hand stretched halfway out to knock on it. Susan caught herself, shook her head, and turned back to her own room.

Two fruitless days later she received a summons from Fabbro. She navigated the city furtively to the former bank he was using.

"No success, huh?" Fabbro said when Rizzi entered the vault. A number of the old individual safety deposit boxes had been removed from their slots in the walls, leaving it a pockmarked, pitted appearance. Several computers sat clustered together on the tables near the end of the rectangular room. There was no way reception from outside could be any good, but that was probably the point; all the metal undoubtedly prevented anything outside from getting a good return as well. Edmondo stood over one, peering down at the screen as he jotted down notes.

"It's one man," Rizzi said, "in Manhattan. Not a regular resident either. Locating him may not be easy."

"I know," Fabbro said shortly. "But blood calls for blood."

"That doesn't speed the process up."

"No," said Edmondo. "It does not. But…" He lifted a finger as he stepped towards them from the computers. "There's been another development that may alleviate it."

Rizzi lifted an eyebrow, ignoring the tension coiling in her gut.

"Mister Wu was not the only one from Silver Mountain at Silken when Mister Tracitus was killed," Edmondo continued. "In fact, he was far from the most significant member there."

Wu wasn't technically a member of the Silver Mountain at all, Rizzi thought, remembering some of their conversations, but she knew better than to say anything about _that._ As for who else... that must be-

"Do you remember Miss Ma? She was on the list of persons of interest after the summit with the Bazaar." He held up a surveillance photo on his tablet: a partially-focused image of the Chinese woman exiting a car.

"Yes." Of course, she'd been wearing something very different the last time Susan had seen her. "Not much information about her."

"It appears she may not be as circumspect as we first thought. There's been word of her… activities at Silken. Activities that mark her as present the night Mister Tracitus was murdered. It seems she brought along a guest – a man of mixed descent, one who typically operates on the West Coast and the Asian regions."

"Wu."

"Not hard to read between the fuckin' lines, huh?" said Fabbro. "She brought her boy toy there to kill Julius."

"We also have," Edmondo said, holding the tablet out to her, "an address. Hers."

"This all came to light in the last two days?" Rizzi asked, looking it over.

"A slip-up of their security. It seems she hosted an Elder at her apartment for a tea tasting. They were not as careful as they should have been."

"You understand," said Fabbro, "this in no way means the contract on that Wu punk is gone. I want him dead. I want him to die slowly, in great pain. But here you are complaining about a residence. There's one. Take the bitch out. Maybe that'll draw him out too, huh?"

Rizzi paused, then breathed out. "Maybe it will."


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

"It seems excessive," said Chou Yu, fiddling with his pistol. "All this effort for one person?"

"This assassin killed Elder Luo," replied Kang Lun. "It warrants a response. Besides, aren't you curious to see what she's like in person?"

"She killed an Elder. What else is there to know?" Chou Yu stripped the magazine from his pistol, slid it home, and then ejected it again. He drummed his fingernails against the magazine, tapping out a rhythm as they waited.

"What about you, Wu- _cike_?" Kang said. "What do you think?"

Wu was staring out the window of the emptied apartment they waited in. It was one of the fancy high-rise complexes in mid-town, south of Central Park. Up on the sixteenth floor it offered a spectacular view of the park in question; it currently lacked the rich green of the summer season, but had its own beauty. He'd wondered idly when they arrived that morning what the rent here cost, then decided he didn't want to know. He waited with seven others one floor above Xiao Ma's, paying little attention to the understated opulence on display all around them.

"Wu- _cike_?" Kang said again.

He shook his head once. "What?"

"I wonder what you think this assassin is like."

 _Oi._ Now there was a can of worms he'd rather not open. "I've heard of her," Wu said after a moment. "She's done some difficult jobs."

"But what is she like, in person I mean?"

"Why do you care?" Chou Yu said as another Silver Mountain shooter passed through to the apartment kitchen.

"I'm just curious," said Kang. "If she's another soulless fiend like Perkins, or if there's more to her."

"It won't matter when she's dead." Chou Yu checked his pistol again.

"A man can wonder."

"You're not asking her out to tea," Chou Yu said.

"I'm still curious as to what Wu- _cike_ thinks," Kang said.

Elijah had heard little of the exchange, having gone back to staring out the window. He'd also been trying not to think about what the events of several nights ago – with little success. He couldn't deny that it had been fun, even great, but… maybe that was all it would ever be. It _shouldn't_ have even gotten that far.

It had been a mistake, a lapse in judgment on both their parts.

And it wouldn't happen again.

"Wu- _cike_?" Kang's voice jolted him from his thoughts. "Are you all right? You seem distracted."

"It's nothing," said Wu. "Don't worry about it."

"This other killer? What think you?"

"I… don't know her well," he said. "It won't matter afterwards."

"Do you think she'll fall for it?" Chou asked.

"Who knows?" Wu stepped closer to the window, shifting his gaze downwards from the expanse of the park out before him to the immediate streets below. It wasn't like he could recognize individual people from this distance.

Kang fiddled with his earpiece. "Door guard, report in." He listened for a moment, then shrugged. "Nothing yet."

Wu unholstered his pistol and screwed the suppressor over its muzzle. He resisted the urge to check the status of the magazine; Chou had been driving him nearly half-mad with the weapon checks, and it would be rather hypocritical to do the same. He felt the cold emanating through the window glass and tugged at the bottom edges of his ballistic vest absently.

And found himself hoping that nothing would happen.

* * *

Rizzi threaded her way through the streets towards the target apartment. She saw it in the distance: a tower of masonry and glass, that sort of turn-of-the-century – the _last_ century – architecture that shaped so much of the skyline. Clouds grayed out the sky and the wind came in fierce today, a biting blade that cut through the hood around her head, seemingly to the bone. People bundled up in all manner of winter clothes hurried along the sidewalks, eager not to be out any longer than necessary.

She pulled the coat tighter around herself as she drew closer to the structure. Fifteenth floor. That could be inconvenient. And walking in through the front doors – probably not a good idea with Silver Mountain after her. She'd checked the building background; nothing that screamed Silver Mountain involvement or ownership, but that didn't mean anything with the timetable she'd been working with. A different way inside; that was the smart thing to do.

* * *

Wu found himself pacing back and forth in the living room of the apartment. One wall had been converted into a surveillance center; banks of monitors displayed feeds from little cameras placed around the floor beneath them. Nothing had happened since they'd began and the others were getting restless, itching for some kind of action. Kang had taken to badgering the observers at the front desk for an update every few minutes.

Elijah silently hoped that nothing would happen.

 _Please, just let this pass._

Not that he had any semblance of some ultimate way out of this, he realized. The most Wu hoped for was some kind of moment by moment avoidance of the issue.

 _Coward_ , said the little voice in his head. He kept pacing, throwing glances at the screens of empty halls. Chou started to go around to get lunch requests and Wu let himself think that maybe, just maybe, nothing would come of all this.

Of course, he should have known better.

"Hey," said a broad-shouldered, tattooed man who went by Merciless Jing. He was currently on rotation for the cameras, seated before the monitors. He'd just sat up straight and pointed at the screen showing the feed from the camera covering the elevator doors.

Wu saw what had drawn his attention: the leftmost set of doors had just slid open, revealing a woman in a long dark coat. Her hood hid her face, but he immediately knew who she was. There'd been no word from the front desk, but then… that was hardly a surprise.

 _Damn it._

"Hey!" Jing called in Chinese. "Somebody's here!"

The others rushed in, clustering around the screens. "Is it her?" asked Chou. "Where is she going?"

"It must be," Kang said, pointing to her progress. "Look, she's headed for the apartment!"

* * *

The elevator doors opened and Rizzi stepped out, checking both directions to get her bearings before starting towards Xiao Ma's apartment. It sat at the far end of the hallway from the elevators. The place was beautiful, she noticed; art deco architecture mated with warm metal colors. Even the hatch to the garbage disposal chute had needlessly intricate filigree work around its borders. She moved purposefully forward, scanning all around, one hand on her pistol grip. There'd been something off about the place ever since she'd snuck in. The quiet, she decided. There was something about the quiet on this floor that she didn't like. Sure, it was the middle of the day and people were probably out, but she would have expected _some_ kind of activity, some muffled conversation or television noise coming through the doors. Here, it was like the floor had been emptied out.

She closed in on the door in question – and halted at the little red maple tree positioned at the very end of the hall. It was just a decorative houseplant, the kind of thing that spruced up otherwise barren apartments and gave them semblances of life and warmth, but all her instincts screamed at her. She blinked, took another look, and picked out the glint of a small, round camera lens positioned amongst the branches.

Rizzi was already moving when the door swung open and somebody leaned out. She tucked her chin down and folded her leg beneath her, collapsing into a roll towards the other side of the hallway while she ripped the pistol from her holster. A chatter like that of a nail gun filled the air as a suppressed burst of submachine gun fire tore through the wall behind where she'd been standing a half-second earlier.

Still down on one knee, Rizzi raised her pistol and returned fire. Her first shot splintered the doorframe inches from the man's arm. Her second punched into his shoulder and an instant later the third tore through his throat. He staggered backwards, finger tightening on the trigger. Sharp little _cracks_ filled the hallway as bullets zipped through and smashed into walls and doors. Rizzi lined her sights up and put two rounds through the center of his face. Her shots were even quieter than the SMG; she'd come loaded with subsonic ammunition, intending to lie in wait for Xiao Ma to return and do the job with a minimum of fuss.

So much for _that_ plan.

She heard several shouts in Chinese from inside the apartment. Moving forward in a half-crouch, Rizzi drew near the doorway and was just about to peek around the frame over the dead man's body when another several rounds snapped through into the opposite wall. It didn't stop; bullets came at a steady pace, both through the doorway and the immediate walls around, forcing her further back. One bullet tore through close enough that she felt the dust from the fresh hole spatter off her cheek.

She took a deep breath as she retreated another several steps. That rhythm and pace of fire was meant to suppress, keep her from getting close to the apartment. At the rate they were turning the far wall into Swiss cheese, it meant they had plenty of ammunition on hand. And if they were just keeping her suppressed, that meant…

An ambush: others were coming for her.

" _Fuck,_ " Rizzi snarled, backing away towards the exits. Only one thing to do in an ambush.

* * *

Kang Lun headed the charge. They rushed down the west staircase to the floor below. Wu found himself at the rear, by chance or intent he didn't know. The rapid, rhythmic _thuds_ of suppressed SMG fire formed a percussive beat with their footsteps. Kang yanked the staircase door open, swung out, and-

Sprayed blood across the wall as a rifle roar echoed down the hall. Kang's body slumped against the door, leaving a red smear as he slid down. Two more rounds tore through his body. Chou Yu was next, rushing out and firing his pistol. He shuddered and fell in a bloody mess as more rifle fire sounded at close range.

A black blur surged through the door, slamming into the third man. Several more shots sounded from both parties as Wu leapt down the rest of the stairs. He caught the Silver Mountain man as he slumped backwards, rolling the body aside, and-

Stared into Susan Rizzi's wide, intense eyes as she jammed her rifle muzzle up under his chin. The heat of it felt like a branding iron and he twitched backwards, finding that the stairs behind kept him from moving backwards any more. Her rifle extended from a sling, its folded stock making it short enough to conceal beneath her coat. She'd seized his wrist with her free hand, wrenching his arm and his gun up and out of the way.

She stared back at him, a mix of shock, fury, and determination shining in her eyes. Shouts came from further outside; the other team in the other staircase on the move. Rizzi heard it as well; her eyes flickered, a depth of frustration and sorrow taking over.

"Vest?" she said suddenly, her voice a low, intense hiss.

 _What? Oh._ He hesitated the briefest instant, then nodded once with the shallowest dip of his head, acutely aware of the smoking rifle muzzle centimeters away.

Tugging fiercely on his arm, Rizzi spun both of them around so his back faced the door. She gave him a shove that transitioned into a forward kick that launched him across the hall and slammed him into the opposite wall. His hand was already moving from practiced reflex, lifting to aim his pistol.

In slow motion he saw her rifle slipping down; she'd dropped it as part of the same shove. In its place Rizzi had seized her pistol. The gun came up at the same time his did – but his weapon had already been in hand. He had her.

He squeezed the trigger.

The bullet cracked into the frame of the door, well clear of her, and sent splinters tumbling through the air.

Rizzi fired. Once. Again. Two hammer blows struck him in the chest. His head slammed into the wall and he collapsed into a heap; he saw only a glimpse of the back of her hood as she turned and ran down the stairs.

* * *

Heart pounding inside her chest like a jackhammer, Rizzi sprinted down the stairs. She heard shouts in pursuit, the clack of rapid footsteps. Screams, too from elsewhere within the apartment complex. Understandable, given that she'd just cut loose with a rifle inside. That had to draw a response; the police would be coming. She had to get out.

 _Survive first._

A round smashed into the floor from above, just missing her foot. Another Silver Mountain man leaned out over the railing above, trying to get a fix on her position in the winding angles of the staircase. Still moving, she angled her rifle up and discouraged him with a return shot. He drew back, making his next shot go wide.

Then someone leapt down to her level, catching himself on the railing like something out of a circus act. The pistol in his hand, however, was not. Rizzi threw herself down the rest of the flight to the next floor, jarring her shoulder hard against the wall as he levelled the gun. She brought her own pistol up and snapped off a hasty shot.

The subsonic round travelled slow enough that in her adrenaline-amped state she thought she could almost see it whiz past the man's ear. Her other hand reached out for the doorknob and ripped it open as he regained his balance. The motion twisted her body aside just enough that his next shot snapped past the bridge of her nose, so close she felt the heat on her skin as it punched a hole in the door.

Another man leapt down, also clinging to the railings. The briefest, ridiculous impression of Silver Mountain recruiting from the ranks of some acrobatic troupe flashed through her mind. _Gotta move._ Rizzi threw herself through the doorway, narrowly avoiding the trio of rounds pursuing her. She made to clear as much apace as she could, leaving the doorway behind. The other staircase, she decided, sprinting through the hall.

It nearly got her killed.

She rounded a corner to the hall leading to the other set of stairs just as that door flung open and a wide, tattooed man stormed through. Rizzi flung herself aside with a curse, back around the corner from the rapid volley of gunfire that tore down the length of the hall. Not good. They'd have her flanked shortly: boxed into the corner with men coming from both sides. She glanced around as she sent rifle fire up both hallways, alternating her shots to keep the Silver Mountain hitters from getting too close on either side.

An option presented itself to her desperate mind – a bad idea. The garbage disposal chute sat at the corner, its rectangular hatch wide enough to admit her – just barely.

Really a bad idea.

The bullets punching into the walls and getting closer were an even worse option though. She leaned out and emptied her rifle magazine, driving the tattooed man back and downing the other gunman behind him. Then she stepped back, tugged the hatch open, and slid in feet-first. She pulled the hatch shut behind her while bracing against the sides of the steel chute with her feet. And then she let herself drop. Feet skidding against the walls, she reached out and caught the lip of the hatch as she slid down to the next floor. Angry voices came from above, questioning and commanding in turn. Rizzi slid down several more floors before catching herself against another inner hatch lip, grunting with the impact and effort. She tried not to think about how far the drop would be if she slipped – nearly a dozen stories – or how easy it was for the Silver Mountain team to open the hatch above and spray down the confines of the chute with bullets. It wasn't like they'd even need to aim; the ricochets alone would do the job.

She dropped another floor, two, then two, each time slowing and catching herself against the hatches she passed. Her boots made skidding screeches against the walls of the shaft that she was sure travelled up to the Silver Mountain squad and announced her location. Dimly Rizzi also grew aware of the growing stench the further down she went. No surprise. She had a conspicuous desire to not plummet into a heap of garbage, strong enough that it made itself known even while trying to get away from a squad of gunmen. Repeating the process, she made her way down through the apartment, trying to keep track of how many floors she'd covered.

As she got somewhere around the sixth floor Rizzi heard the discordant ringing of a fire alarm. Probably some terrified resident; setting off an evacuation alert like that would only make Silver Mountain's work harder. She could work with this.

She'd just lowered herself another floor when she heard one of the hatches above wrenching open. Rizzi threw her arms out, bracing herself against the sides of the shaft, and heaved a stomping kick against the hatch she'd been hanging against. The impact knocked it open; she swung both legs back, planting her feet against the back of the shaft. She pushed off in the same motion, launching herself through the opening just as several shots rattled down.

Rizzi felt a sting against the side of her calf as she cleared the hatch. She hit the floor in a roll and came up running for the closest stairway. She almost went for her weapons at the sight of movement from within – and barely halted when she realized she was looking at a mix of indoor outfits like pajamas, dressing gowns, and sundry casual clothes.

Fleeing residents. That was good. She could still move on her leg without trouble – also good. Taking a second to check that her rifle and pistol were concealed beneath her coat, Rizzi went to join those fleeing for the ground floor. She slipped in amongst the crowd of rich and hysterical housewives, put on her best deer-in-the-headlights expression, and trammeled down the stairs with the herd.

* * *

"Wu- _cike_?" Xiao Ma's voice seemed to come from some vast distance away.

Elijah replied with a groan. His chest felt like a steak somebody had taken a meat tenderizer to with excessive enthusiasm. Son of a bitch, that _hurt._

"Wu- _cike?_ " Her voice still seemed far way, even though his eyes told him Xiao Ma stood right over him. Her eyes were wide and fearful; understandable, given that Silver Mountain's planned ambush hadn't worked out as intended. That couldn't be reassuring to the bait.

It took several attempts before he found his voice. "I'm-" He almost said 'all right,' then decided on, "alive."

"I see that," Xiao Ma said curtly. "What of the assassin? The other one?"

Wu shrugged – and immediately regretted it. "Gone, it seems."

"Gone as in dead or gone as in escaped?"

He glanced around at the mess of bodies and blood. "Pretty sure we didn't come out ahead on this one."

"What the hell happened – no." She took a quick breath. "We must leave. This fiasco will attract attention. We may be able to delay a law enforcement response, but we should not linger here." She stepped towards the elevators, then paused and looked back at him with arched brow. "Are you coming?"

Wu nodded, then climbed to his feet painfully. "What about them?" he asked, voice wheezing as he nodded towards the bodies of Chou Yu and the others.

"We shall make arrangements later." Xiao Ma had already started moving again. "We must leave."

Elijah bent down and brushed Chou Yu's eyes closed. They hadn't exactly been _friends_ , but he'd respected the Silver Mountain man in his own way. He staggered after Xiao Ma, coughing against the throbbing ache in his chest.

He entered the elevator and slumped against the back wall as Xiao Ma hit the button for the underground garage level. She clutched her Nano pistol in one hand, her face paler than usual.

"Don't go waving that thing around," he said after catching his breath again. "Somebody spots a gun on us with everything happening, it'll only make things worse."

"This wouldn't be necessary if you had all done your jobs," she snapped back. "What happened?"

"You win some, you lose some," Elijah said, watching the floor display tick down.

He took another deep breath, still leaning against the elevator wall; the pain had receded to the point that he could suppress it, shunt it aside to deal with later until the immediate situation had been dealt with. The physical pain, at any rate.

As it turned out, getting shot by Susan had hurt on a whole different level.

* * *

She split off from the civilians once they got outside, moving swiftly but randomly through the city. Duck into a café here, a street mart there, checking for any sign of pursuers all the while. Each moment she felt sure somebody would recognize the smell of gunpowder lingering on her, or notice her rifle imprinting through her coat, or notice her leg, or that the next crowd was another Silver Mountain hit crew lying in wait for her.

As she made her way further from the ambush site she felt some of the tension and immediate adrenaline draining away, each passing minute further from the rush of combat like the tide receding from a shore. Rizzi stopped by a coffee shop, navigating through the groups of people bundled in winter clothes. She ordered an espresso and took a position at the bar counter that let her observe the door.

"Getting cold out there, isn't it?" the barista said as she handed the little ceramic cup over.

Susan realized her hand was trembling as she reached out to take it. That must have been what triggered the barista's comment. She forced a nod out of herself. "Yeah. Cold."

"Well, warm up." The woman swung away, attending to other customers, and left her alone.

Susan raised the cup to her lips, barely feeling the steam against her face, which still tingled between the combination of adrenaline and winter wind. She barely tasted the sip, still watching the door.

 _You shot him_. The thought struck her like a knife thrust. It played itself over and over in her mind: the grimace on Elijah's face, the buck of the pistol in his hands, the resistance of the trigger beneath her finger, the snap and the recoil. The way his body twitched against the wall. The second bullet, also into his chest.

She released a shaky breath. He'd been wearing a ballistic vest, Susan told herself. She'd been using a subsonic load in her pistol. The shots shouldn't have penetrated; it would hurt like hell and he'd probably have some bruises to show for the experience, but… he should be alive. Her hand trembled even harder at that.

A chuckle escaped from her, one she couldn't suppress. _Go figure._ _Sleep with a guy and then shoot him the next time you see him._ Susan almost burst into manic laughter and barely managed to force it down; she really didn't need to attract that kind of attention right now.

Rizzi downed the rest of the espresso and stopped by the restroom. She pulled her pant leg up to inspect her calf – and realized she needn't have bothered. It was more than the cold numbing her to any pain; she didn't even consider it a wound. No bullet in her leg or through-and-through wound. Hell, the gash didn't even look like it had been from an entire bullet. It had probably been a fragment, a piece of shattered round from a ricochet. Fortunate, that. She washed it out with some soap, tied a paper towel over it, and tugged the pant leg back down.

That could have been much worse. But then, her day wasn't over yet. Time to deliver some more good news.

* * *

"So did you kill the bitch?" Fabbro said once she'd finished explaining what happened. He drummed his fingers against the oak table in his penthouse room, face a mask of impatience.

"I didn't get close," Rizzi said. "It was a setup, Fabbro. They were waiting for somebody to try it."

"I don't like failure, doll."

"And I don't like walking into ambushes," she said. "Looks like we both have to suck it up today."

"Why are you so certain it was an ambush?" Edmondo asked from the side.

"The teams waiting to jump me, for one," Rizzi said dryly.

"Is there any chance they were just present as typical security? A crew already on-site as part of a regular rotation?"

"With two shooters just twitching at the prospect of hosing down an apartment hallway? No, they were waiting for somebody to make a play at Xiao Ma." Rizzi crossed her arms, frowning as she replayed some of the details in her mind. "Also, the suppressors."

"Come again?" Fabbro said.

"They all had suppressors," she said. "All of them. Law enforcement also took its sweet time getting to the scene, even after I went loud."

"Aha." Edmondo nodded. "They'd gone to some effort in anticipation of a kill, you mean."

"Fabbro scowled." Your point?"

"They had a pretty good idea that I'd be there," said Rizzi.

"What are you saying? I've got a rat in the ranks, is that it?"

She bit her tongue, suddenly not eager to have Fabbro looking out for any sign of betrayal.

Fortunately, Edmondo bailed her out there. "That needn't be the case," he said, shaking his head. "Perhaps Miss Rizzi is suggesting that we have been going about this too predictably. They had to know you would seek vengeance for Mister Tracitus. Perhaps they merely arranged to release information about somebody involved with his death, to see what the inevitable response would be."

"You'd prefer we did nothing?"

"If it disorients the Silver Mountain at this juncture, it's worth considering," Edmondo said evenly.

Fabbro grunted. "Not liking what I'm hearing."

"We have been utilizing Miss Rizzi's services quite extensively recently. Perhaps too much so. Predictability: it could be problematic."

"Fine, fine." Fabbro waved a hand in Rizzi's direction. "Make yourself scarce for a couple days, huh? Maybe the chinks will think you panicked, skipped town or something. Let their guard down."

"I can do that," she said, and started towards the door out, glad to leave.

"Hey," Fabbro called. "The ambush. Was that Wu guy there/"

She hesitated, then nodded. "Pretty sure."

"What happened?"

"I put two bullets into him." Technically true, she thought, blowing out a quick breath.

Fabbro nodded distantly. "We won't assume a sure kill. Somebody like that is probably wearing a vest for this sort of thing, huh?"

"Probably."

"You're still on the job then, until you bring me proof of death. Alright, scram. Try not to shoot any places up or set off any bombs, huh?"

As Susan left the penthouse and made her way back, she couldn't help but feel that the charge had already been set and the timer running. Now… it just remained to be seen what would happen when the explosion went off.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

The sky had faded into darkness by the time Susan returned to the Continental. The sheer amount of light emanated by the city bled up into the night, washing out the stars and casting that dim haze over everything. Holiday lights added to the ongoing spectacle, lending a cheerful air in contrast to her own dark mood. She stalked through the hotel lobby to the front desk.

"I need laundry done again," she said to Charon.

He gave her that little half-smile as he said, "Of course. The usual arrangements?"

She nodded.

"Somebody will be right up."

As she crossed back across towards the elevators, Susan paused at the sight of Felix Kerranus heading towards the desk. He had a Bavarian hat on his head, a bag slung over his shoulder, and another suitcase in hand. "Rizzi," he said, nodding.

"You look like you're checking out," she said.

"Indeed. New York is getting unseasonable for my taste."

Or in other words, there was too damn much wanton mayhem.

"Understandable," Susan said. "Where're you headed?"

"I hear Rome is nice this time of year," Kerranus said. "You seem inclined to remain here."

"I'm under contract."

"Ah, yes." He nodded again. "Just a thought, though: the way things are going in this city, you may find yourself reconsidering the worth of a contract. Some engagements carry… unintended consequences. And the Continental, well, its boundaries only extend so far, no?"

Susan looked obliquely at him for a moment; did he know something or- "What are you talking about?"

"Am I saying something, or are you hearing something?" Kerranus tipped his hat with his free hand. "Until next time, Rizzi. May our contracts be ever separate."

"Take care, Felix."

* * *

She showered, ditched her dirtied clothes in the laundry basket, and flopped down onto her bed, releasing a long sigh after the events of the day. She saw Elijah's face again, his expression as he slumped against the wall in that hallway. _Get over it,_ she told herself. _It was just business._ And yet… She frowned up at the ceiling. Would she really be telling herself that if it were true?

Susan hadn't even realized she'd made the decision until she found herself in the hallway in front of Elijah's door. She wondered briefly if he was there. What if one of her rounds had gotten through his vest somehow? Or broken a rib? Anything could have happened, any number of reasons he was gone – or dead.

She should turn away. Just leave. That night had been a bad decision: no reason to let it spill any further out of control. _Do the smart thing._ She-

Reached out and knocked.

The door opened and Elijah said, "You shot me."

"That was business," said Susan as she slipped into his room. A sudden brilliant warmth bubbled up in her chest; he was alive. The other assassin had his shirt off and a glass of whiskey in hand, an open bottle of rye on the table with his jacket strewn over the back of the chair. His gray undershirt hugged the lines of his torso.

"You shot me," he repeated, closing the door behind her.

"I'll make it up to you." She stepped close and kissed him, tasted the spicy rye lingering on his lips. He didn't respond, and she arched an eyebrow as her hands drifted to his undershirt. "Oh come on, I know it's not the first time you've taken one," she said as she pushed the garment up. "I've seen you naked before."

He said nothing as she drew the thin fabric up to reveal the purple splotch on his chest standing out against his olive skin. Susan kept her gaze locked on his as she traced the edges of the bruise with her fingertips. She felt his breath hitch, felt him tense, and then heard his quiet hiss when she gently prodded the center of the mark. "Not my deadliest shot," she murmured.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Elijah said, his voice thick.

"Aww, are you sore?" Maintaining eye contact, Susan stooped down and planted a kiss on the bruise, just hard enough to feel him twitch under her lips.

"You sure you want to do that right now?"

Susan flicked her gaze down. "Well, you seem _up_ for it."

"I'm not exactly thrilled with you right now," he said. "Don't push me."

"Oh?" Susan said, continuing her trail of lingering kisses downward. A part of her mind questioned herself; somehow she found herself behaving… _differently_ with him. It wasn't her, and yet… "Now I have to take that as a challenge."

"I'm serious," Elijah said quietly. He pulled her up before him, gaze flickering over her face. "Don't-"

"So am I," Susan cut in, and to her own surprise realized that the playful tone of her voice had disappeared. That there was a part of her that wanted him to take it out on her, to be… "Do your worst – or your best. Come on. Isn't there a part of you that just wants to-"

And with that, it seemed some switch got flipped within him, like a rifle switched from safe to automatic. He kissed her hard and hungrily – furiously, almost. His hands drifted up her thighs, past her hips, up and around her waist to the inside of her loose shirt. He dragged the garment up her body, breaking the kiss off just long enough to tear it off none-too-gently over her head and toss it aside. Susan went for his pants closure as their lips met again. She flicked it open and tugged downwards as he did the same, her bare chest brushing against him and breath coming hot against his. Then his fingers paused on the hem of her underwear. "Last chance, he murmured, a look halfway between hunger and reluctance in his eyes.

She took a deep breath; this was foolish. She knew it. Then, still staring into his eyes, she took his hands in hers, hooked his fingertips into the band of fabric at her hips, and pushed down. Elijah's gaze traveled downwards, unhurried and appreciative; she felt that honey warmth uncoiling in her chest again. Susan stepped out of the flimsy little garment, closing the distance between them, and brushed her lips against his, her hands still entwined with his. She felt a tiny smile tug at the corners of her lips. "Well, I think-"

His hands snapped over and around to grasp her wrists, hauling her arms up in the same motion. They traveled up, over her head until she stood tiptoe. Susan's knee twitched upwards but she suppressed the combative instinct to hammer it up between his legs. He steered them toward the bed without a word, half-dragging and half-shoving her along, and threw her down onto the softness.

Susan landed with a suppressed yelp and felt a feral grin cross her face; this might be a bad idea, but _damn_ if she wasn't having a little _fun._ She pushed herself up onto her elbows and drew her knees up slightly, peering between them as Elijah fitted on protection and stalked towards the mattress.

He maneuvered into place above her, then seized her wrists again and hauled them over her head, stretching her out before him. He thrust into her without warning and she was already so wet and hot that she just let out a quiet little gasp. Then her eyes widened as he started moving, in and against her with a ferocity she hadn't experienced from him before. He adjusted his hands, crossing her wrists and pinning them with one of his own so his other hand could meander down her body, stroking and squeezing and pinching and _oh_ that felt good…

She moaned loudly – or started to. Elijah suddenly brought his hand up, fingers still slick with _her_ , and clamped it over Susan's mouth. She breathed hard, blowing against the back of his hand, as his face came down and halted centimeters from her own. He stared into her eyes and the look in them – she knew that look. She knew it for herself; the intensity like when you stabbed somebody and held them down to make sure they were dead. And all the while he thrust into her without relent, without word.

Susan couldn't recall ever having felt quite so helpless before.

Or so thrilled.

The odd duality of her current situation was the sort of thing she should be thinking about and analyzing, a part of her mind knew. But that part was currently buried under the more primal part, the part the screamed _yes, more,_ the part that wanted to lie there forever while he did all sorts of delightful things to her body…

She shifted the angle of her hips just slightly – and went taut as Elijah's machine-like strokes hit that spot within her now, again and again and again. Her eyes rolled backwards and not even his grip over her mouth could keep her ecstatic moan from bursting out. And he just kept going without pause, staring down at her, until her entire body was afire and she just lay there, pinned and taut and a quivering, blissful mess. She lost track of time by the third climax.

Elijah finally finished with a muffled groan, his body going stiff before he slid his hand off her mouth. He slumped down dropping her forehead to the bed next to her. Bodies pressed together, she felt every one of his shuddering breaths. " _Oh_ ," she panted after a long moment. "I should shoot you more often."

"I'd rather you didn't," he said into her ear. He released her wrists like she'd surrender her guns. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let it get to this point."

As Elijah moved to get off from her Susan belatedly realized that she'd wrapped her legs around him at some point. She crossed her ankles and tightened their hips together. Elijah shot her a look of surprise. "Stay," she said, meaning to sound playful.

Instead his look of surprise deepened at the quiet plea of her voice. Hell, she hadn't been expecting that herself. He stared at her for a moment and that sent a spike of vulnerability through her the way being held down hadn't. Then he nodded and sank down, his body a warm weight atop hers and his breath tickling down the side of her neck as he released a long sigh. She reached over to the side with one now-free hand and drew the rumpled and discarded blanket over them. "I don't want your apology," she murmured.

"Right," Elijah said, a hint of pain in his voice. "Nothing personal, is it?"

"Yeah. Nothing personal."

But as the dizzying orgasmic highs faded and their breathing slowed towards hazy drowsiness she rolled her head slightly to eye Elijah. She was wrong about that, she realized. Here, now, in this moment, there _was_ something personal between them – at least for her. That odd duality struck her again: that mix of fright and exhilaration. Susan brought one hand up to ruffle his hair and then kissed his neck gently. Slipping towards slumber, she wrapped her arms around him and forced the thoughts from her mind. Anything happening within the premises of the Continental had nothing to do with the outside world. Nothing would come of this… fling.

Nothing could.

 _Of course._

* * *

Elijah awoke to the sensation of warmth and tangled limbs. As his eyes blinked open groggily he realized that Susan was wrapped around him but they'd rolled to their sides at some point in the night. Her chest pulsed against his in the slow rhythm of sleep and he found himself staring at her face inches away. The corners of her lips were quirked up in a contented little half-smile and he fought back the urge to kiss them.

 _What the hell are you doing? She shot you._ But then the more rebellious part of his inner voice chimed in. _Non-lethally. She could have shot you in the head._ Rolling slightly to lie on his back, Elijah winced as the motion pulled at his bruise. He really shouldn't have been doing certain things last night. _She did make it up to you_. Damned inner voice. He lay there arguing silently with himself, staring up at the ceiling and definitely not at the sleeping woman clinging to him.

What was he doing? The first time – that might have been an aberration, an oddity of the moment. _This_ – when did whatever this was cross into treachery, to betrayal? Perhaps it already had, no matter the professed neutral ground of the Continental. And it wasn't as if this was going any further. That would be even more foolish than what they'd just done. He shouldn't have done this, for multiple reasons. And yet…

Susan stirred beside him, nuzzling closer and awakening parts of his anatomy that really ought to be quite sated by now. The rhythmic pattern of her breathing changed just so and he looked over at her. She stared back at him with a bleary, semi-confused expression.

"You're still here," she said.

"Well, this _is_ my room," said Elijah.

"I was half-expecting you to be gone regardless." She gave a little shrug that most definitely did not cause the sheets over her to curve and slide in fascinating ways – which he most definitely was not noticing. "After last time…" Susan gave another shrug. "I figured maybe you were the sort that left a string of heartbroken girls alone in bed come morning."

Was that what she thought of him?

"I don't know about _heartbroken_ ," he said, surprised – and a little bothered – at how her remark cut into him.

"Perhaps we should settle for 'incredibly satisfied' then." Susan gave him a look that would have melted steel as she drew the covers back and slid down his body. "So…" She kissed his bruise. "Feeling better?"

Elijah rolled the response around his tongue for a minute. "I'm really not sure."

"I bet I can change that," she said, straightening and settling onto the bed beside him. "What if both took today off?"

"I'm not sure this line of employment comes with sick days."

"It's not like there's typically a strict schedule," Susan replied, flipping onto her stomach and crossing her arms beneath her chin. "And there ought to be some time for recuperation after incidents."

"I can just imagine that conversation," Elijah said. "I won't be coming in today; I'm in bed with the person who shot me."

"We needn't spend _all_ day in bed." She traced one fingertip lazily across his collarbone. "Although that does have its appeal."

"You're just using me, aren't you?" he said, grinning.

The finger froze. "That's what I figured we were both doing," she said after a moment. "Nothing wrong with that."

"No, of course not." _That's all this is._

"We're just enjoying ourselves while we're here."

"Yeah." Time to change the subject. "You hungry? How about some room service?"

"Yes please. I'm starving."

"Getting shot is as good a reason as any to take some time off," Elijah said. "But what about you? Are you-"

Susan gave another rolling shrug that traveled down her shoulders and back. "My employers want me to lay low and not cause trouble. They didn't otherwise specify how I was or wasn't supposed to spend the time – or with whom."

"If – hypothetically – we were doing something like that, I might shamefacedly suggest we do some horribly touristy things, but-"

"Stepping foot outside the Continental like this would be monumentally unwise," she said. "I know."

Not that _this_ was a good idea to begin with, he dwelled on for a moment. And there was the fact that they had both contributed to the way things were outside through their actions. It wasn't something he'd ever particularly stopped to dwell on before. Also, introspection was quite the challenge when presented with somebody pressed up against him like this.

Susan shifted and climbed atop him, leaning in to bring her lips right beside his ear in a reversal of their positions from last night. "But I'm sure we can find things to keep us occupied in here."

"You are incorrigible," Elijah said. He kissed the side of her neck and slipped one arm around her waist, then rolled her off him back onto the bed. "But I think food is a great idea right now. You're not the only one starving." He reached for the phone. "What are you in the mood for?"

Susan glanced out the window at the sleet-like rain coming down. It was one cold wind away from being snow. "Something hot and hearty. Soup, maybe?"

"That sounds really good." His stomach growled in agreement and he plucked the phone from its cradle.

He remained aware of Susan watching him as he placed the order. Lounging on her side, she'd drawn the sheets up around her, looking oddly demure in contrast to last night. "So you are taking the day off?" she asked once he hung up.

"I think I am." Huh. When had he made that decision? He sat back down on the bed. _This might be taking it too far._

"Very nice," Susan said.

"And what's your excuse? You didn't get shot."

"Not letting that go anytime soon, are you? Don't forget you threw me out a window first."

"I hadn't met you yet."

"Yes, the ground was so much more accommodating because of that fact."

"It could have been worse." _Because then I wouldn't have met you._

She reached out and caressed his bruise. "So could this."

 _True._ And it wasn't so much the shooting, he realized suddenly, like looking through a night-vision optic in a dark room. That had been a reality of their business, an inevitability, even. No, what had really angered him was the dashing of the slim hope that maybe, just maybe, the two of them could avoid that. A fool's hope, really. This world might have its codes and rules, but that was really only a veneer atop the reality of ruthless self-interest and cutthroat competition. _This life poisons us._

He took her hand and squeezed gently. "Sorry for throwing you out a window."

Susan cleared her throat after a moment. "And I'm sorry for shooting you." The bed shifted as she moved close and pressed herself against his back, the warmth of her body surpassing any blanket. She draped her arms over his shoulders and her breath tickled his ear. "But I'm not sorry it lead to this."

"Shouldn't get too used to it."

"Why? Am I going to have to shoot you every time I want you to show some affection?"

"I'd really rather you didn't," Elijah said, then arched an eyebrow. "Is that what we're calling this now?"

"Well…" Her voice was a warm murmur. "It sounded better than 'fucking my brains out.' Although that might be more accurate, I'm thinking."

Wow. He barely stopped himself from turning and taking her again. It took a moment to find his voice. "Maybe some food first?"

She laughed, low and husky, which made her flesh against his back do all kinds of interesting things. "Alright, later. I'll how you to it." Susan climbed out of bed and started dressing. Elijah let himself enjoy the sight without reservation – and noticed something he hadn't before. Her scars – an inevitability given their line of work – were concentrated on her front. She'd earned most of them facing assailants head-on. Susan noticed his scrutiny and gave him a little half-smile, tilting her head towards the door as she slipped her shirt over her head. "I'll be right back," she said. "I should grab some things from my room." At the doorway she paused and glanced back at him. "Right back."

He stared at the door after she left. Again came that quiet voice. _What are you doing?_ He stood, looked around for his pants. Getting deeper, evidently.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

Steam wafted into the air as Elijah set the domed tray cover aside, revealing two ceramic bowls of onion soup and a small platter of toasted crudités. "That smells fantastic," said Susan, leaning forward. She'd gotten her short robe from her room, and wrapped in it now sat at the table in his room. He set one bowl before her alongside a spoon and napkin.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She realized she'd been gazing down at the bowl and shook her head. "It's nothing. Just not used to being served like this."

"What do you mean? We're in the Continental. This happens all the time."

"From the staff, sure." She looked back up at him. "But they're people doing a job. Outside of that, it's not a big thing with many people these days."

Elijah shrugged. "Politeness costs nothing."

"That sounds like a repeated quote. Let me guess: fearsome mother?"

"Psychotic uncle."

"Ah. I guess every family has to have one of those. Which side of the family?"

"The Chinese said. Had some Party connections, if I recall. Never did approve of Father's extra-tribal marriage."

"I don't really have a frame of reference for that," Susan said. "But it sounds rough."

"It's not as big a deal as people make it out to be," he said, nodding at the bowl before her. "Your soup's gonna get cold."

She broke through the crust of broiled cheese atop the soup, dug in past the sodden bread to the dark broth beneath. Like all things the Continental did its quality was second to none. The hot, savory richness warmed her through and she sighed happily.

"The soup was a really good idea," he said after several sips himself.

"It's definitely the weather for it."

"What about you?" Elijah said from across the table, looking at her curiously. "What's the deal with _your_ psycho uncle, then? If everybody's got one?"

"Oh, nothing too crazy," said Susan. "Taught us to shoot, track, a half-dozen ways to kill a man silently. You know: the usual."

"When you say 'us,' are you referring to your brother? You mentioned him before."

Susan froze. She tugged her robe tighter around herself. Why had he remembered that? "I did, didn't I?"

"Past things," he said after a moment, still watching her. "I didn't mean to bring up bygones."

"It's fine." The memory of it came back: that raw scraping sensation like somebody was running a bore brush through her innards. "I haven't talked about it for a while."

"Okay. We don't need to."

"Actually, I lied." She gave him a small, shy smile. "I haven't talked about it ever."

"Ah. Not a lot of people in this world to talk to."

"Makes for poor practice," she said, and took another sip of the luxurious soup.

"I suppose it does." He stared at her for a long moment. "May I ask you something?"

 _Here it comes._ Susan nodded at his chest. "Is it about the bullets in your vest?"

"Why didn't you finish the job?"

She leaned back in the chair. Of course he'd ask that. Why _hadn't_ she? Things would certainly be simpler right now. Indecision and confusion wrestled in the pit of her stomach while her heart went through a gymnastics routine. "I…" She shook her head. "I still owed you for the subway, letting me walk."

"Professional courtesy?"

"Let's call it that." Susan exhaled. "And what about that day in the subway? Why let me go then?"

Elijah looked blankly at her. "I don't know what you mean. Why would I interfere with a random woman trying to catch a train?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

He shrugged. "Let's call it professional courtesy, then."

"Right..." She watched as he swallowed another mouthful of soup.

"What happens tomorrow?" he said casually, brushing his fingertips along the rim of his bowl. It must have still been hot, if her own bowl was any indication, but years of handling firearms had probably numbed him to it. "Blank slate?"

"I don't know," Susan admitted. And she really didn't – what _could_ happen after their… whatever the hell this was? She pushed the concern aside and smiled playfully. "That might depend on how the rest of today goes."

"And what metric are you using to decide about that?"

"Well, I'm planning on hitting up the gym a little, get back in the swing of things. That kind of activity always gets me worked up. So as to how the rest of the day goes, I'm thinking that's dependent on how many orgasms you can wring out of my body."

She paused. _Did I really just say that? Oh…_

He stared at her for a moment, eyes wide. "I'll take you up on that challenge," he said, a grin spreading across his face.

* * *

She threw two quick left jabs, took a half-step to the right, and followed with a right cross that rocked her target to the side.

"Ouch," said Elijah. "Think you broke its jaw."

Susan glanced over at him, past the striking dummy planted in the floor of the gym. "Kind of the point."

He grunted once. "Never liked going for the jaw myself. Or anywhere on the head, really."

"I know," she said. "Good way to break your hand. There's probably a line there about people's skulls being thicker than a fist."

"That seems likely. So giving the dummy a haymaker is…?"

"Stress relief." Susan threw another punch that rocked the dummy hard. "Or at least, it used to be."

Elijah said nothing for long enough that she leaned around the dummy again to get a better view. He'd gone back to the Taichi routine he'd started while she'd been hammering the dummy, arms and hands wheeling through the air at glacial pace as he shifted his balance around. The flimsy undershirt he wore left his arms bare and clung to his pecs, hugging his torso like-

 _Uh oh._ Susan shook herself. She was staring. No. She did not _stare._ That was for preening high schoolers, not seasoned professionals with dozens of successful contract closings. He shifted into another stance, limbs flowing slow and smooth like hot sugar being stretched on the hook by a candy maker, his chest expanding with every breath and-

Okay, she was staring.

And her hand, on its own accord, had started doing indecent things to the striking dummy. Bad hand. Taking a step away from the dummy, Susan cleared her throat gently.

Elijah finished his movement and looked over at her, a hint of a smile crossing his lips. "What's up?"

"I need a shower," she said.

"Are you done here?"

"I'm thinking so," Susan said. "Got that out of my system."

"And what was 'that', exactly?"

"A deep and abiding need for violence, maybe," she said after a moment. "Considering what we do, that doesn't seem like much of a stretch, does it?"

He shrugged. "I could buy that. That's the only reason?"

"Well… This sort of thing – and real combat – always gets me worked up."

"Worked up? You mean-"

"I want to tear your clothes off right here and now."

"I knew it," he said. "Last night was just blowing off steam for you, right?"

"If you want to call it that." She reached out and ran a finger across his chest. "I noticed you weren't complaining last night."

"I didn't say I minded you're using me."

"Hmm…" Susan leaned in, brushed her lips against his. "Back to your room. Now."

* * *

The hot water came down with satisfying force, drumming against her body in a soothing rhythm. She'd always appreciated the quality of the Continental's showers. Susan scrubbed her face and swept her hair back; it had grown out from its bob cut down to her shoulders, and she brushed the wet mass to one side. She thought she'd been blatant enough, what was taking-

"I assume you left it open for a reason?" Elijah asked from the bathroom doorway. He made no effort to hide his enjoyment of the view. Peering back over her shoulder, Susan gave him her best 'come-hither' smile and raised a hand. She crooked her finger. He grinned hungrily, shed his clothes with forced casualness, and prowled into the shower behind her.

His body pressed against her back as his arms wrapped around her, rivulets of water running down corded muscle. His lips traced a trail from her earlobe down the side of her neck to the base, right to the nook where it met her shoulder and- _Oh_ , how did he know about that spot? Her hands shot out, slammed against the glass wall with a wet thud as she moaned happily.

Elijah brought his left hand out and covered hers, twining their fingers together. His other hand slid from her side up to her breasts, caressing and stroking in turn. Callused fingertips danced over her stiff nipples, drawing out ragged gasps as he flicked and pinched while kissing her neck the whole time. Then his hand drifted downwards, stroking past her navel.

Susan hissed and spread her legs as Elijah ran the backs of his fingernails over the skin of her soaked mound. He stroked down slowly, then ended with a sudden flick of his fingertips across her petals. She clenched down tight on the fingers of the hand entwined with hers as she gave unabashed voice to her pleasure. Belatedly, she hoped the sound of the running shower would mask the other noises she was making. Any hope of continued decorum vanished as his fingers found the little pearl of flesh at the apex of her slit and gently pinched while his tongue pressed into that nerve at the base of her neck.

A long minute passed before she could see clearly again, during which she realized the only reason she was still upright was because she leaned drunkenly against him. Susan turned her face up towards the spray of hot water and closed her eyes as she took several long, ragged breaths. She felt the rise and fall of Elijah's chest against her back, felt the heat and throb of him pressing against her from behind. Then his fingers resumed their work, playfully strumming between her legs. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them gently as he stroked and thrust. She angled her hips to match his motions, groaning as she urged him deeper into her body.

Susan released his hand and brought both her hands up over her shoulders, reaching behind her to clasp his head while he nuzzled against her. Elijah brought his free hand to her left breast, ran his fingers over her stiff nipple, and then pinched, gently at first. He rolled the little nub of flesh between his fingertips, drawing a mewl from her lips while he kept sliding two fingers of his other hand in and out of her with slick wet noises. The pinch grew harder, and right at the blurry line between pain and pleasure he rolled the wrist of the hand between her legs, crooking his fingers in much the same way she'd beckoned him to her. Susan's whole body bucked and twitched as she tried to hold back a streak of delirious pleasure. She leaned her head back against Elijah's shoulder.

"Sated?" he murmured.

She laughed quietly. "Not even close."

"Good."

Susan turned, pulled Elijah closer under the shower's spray, and kissed him hungrily.

* * *

Later, after she _was_ sated – mostly – they lay together in bed, exploring one another's bodies. Most of their previous time naked together had been much more… kinetic, but this was slow, almost lazy, a sharing of a different kind.

"So what's this from?" Susan asked, running the tip of her trigger finger along a scar on Elijah's chest.

"A learning experience." He shifted against the headboard. "There was this singer the Silver Mountain wanted to recruit in Beijing; the word was that she was in tight with some local officials. I was still a dumb kid, half-convinced that I was in love, and willing to do anything to impress her."

She looked up at his face. Elijah's gaze was far off in the reaches of memory. "What happened?"

"Well, it turned out she was working with the Vermilion Sword Society all along. The whole thing was a false flag operation. She was supposed to take me out, and we did the whole personal evening thing. I was already nervous as hell the whole time, so when the blade came out I was most of the way into fight or flight mode already. She just missed my heart."

"I'm sorry."

Elijah grinned. "That she attacked, or that she missed?"

"Hmm." Susan leaned in and flicked the tip of her tongue across the scar. "I'm selfish, and I'd be having a lot less fun without you around."

"Your turn." He rubbed his thumb across a starburst splotch on her left thigh. "What's this one?"

"That was a firefight in a bank vault in Germany. Polished steel everywhere: it was like fighting in a hall of mirrors. Ricochets all over the place. A rifle round hit a row of safety boxes next to me, shattered, and that was where a cluster of fragments went. Took a doc more than an hour to pry them out."

"A bank vault? How are you not deaf from that?"

Susan gave him a little smile. "It was a classy affair. Tuxes and suppressors all around."

"That sounds fun."

"It sort of was, right up until the getting shot part." She reached across and stroked the inside of his bicep. "What about this?"

"This one?" Elijah held his arm up. "Oh, that was just a nine-mil round. Happened in… San Francisco, actually. Another fight between the societies. It didn't hit me straight on." He rotated his arm, showing the curve of the ragged scar wrapping his arm.

"You're lucky it missed the artery," said Susan, feeling his pulse beneath her fingertips.

"It was a little close," Elijah admitted. "Hurt like hell too. But it wasn't anything special. What's this from?' The index finger of his other hand migrated from where it had been tracing lazy circles around her right nipple to the pale scar along her lower ribs. Susan squirmed, drawing a chuckle from him. "Ticklish, are we?"

"Speak for yourself." She jabbed a finger into his side. Grinning at his twitch, she poked him twice more, avoiding the bruise from the bullet impacts, then planted a kiss on his shoulder. " _This_ ," she rubbed at her scar, "was from Kols van Haag."

"Van Haag?" Elijah's brow furrowed quizzically. "Sounds familiar. Isn't that the guy who uses crossbows?"

"Yup."

"Huh." He shifted, looking closer as he ran his fingertips over the scar again. "Yeah, I see. What was this – a broadhead bolt?"

"Yes. We were both after the same contract. He didn't appreciate the competition."

"Ah. I know that feeling."

"I think he spent more time hunting me than he did trying to complete the contract. He jumped me on the way to the airport. Trouble with a crossbow is you get one shot, and he took his."

"This was still pretty close."

"Well, you know what they say about close."

"Horseshoes and hand grenades?"

"Mm, ordnance and orgasms."

Elijah grinned and resumed his gentle stroking of her scar. "So what happened with van Haag?"

"He took his shot, I took mine. Botched it too. Went for the head, messed up the trigger control. I just winged him in the face, scared him off." Susan shrugged as best as she could, pressed up against the other assassin. "I learned later I messed up his eye."

He shifted, looking close at her with new respect. "So you're the reason van Haag wears the eyepatch now?"

"I suppose. I've avoided him ever since; I'm pretty sure he's still out for my blood."

"Not surprising."

"Yeah, that _is_ the kind of thing you'd hold a grudge about. Oh well." Susan looked down the length of their bodies, and then brushed a foot against his. "Hey, what's this one from?"

"This?" Elijah raised his foot, showing the pale white line running through the top between the bones. "This was from my _sifu._ "

"Your master? Master of what?"

"The one who taught me swordsmanship. He felt I never paid enough attention to my footwork, so one day he decided to demonstrate while sparring."

"By stabbing you in the foot?"

"Right between the bones, and avoiding major blood vessels. He also bound it up right afterwards."

"Your teacher stabbed you in the foot"

"Well, I never neglected my footwork after that, so it worked."

"That's still messed up."

"Maybe," Elijah said. "But I wouldn't be here today without that instruction, so maybe a scar is a small price to pay." He reached up and rushed a lock of dark hair from her forehead, his gaze focusing on the thin, nearly invisible line running diagonally across her forehead. "Okay, how about this one?"

Susan recoiled, one hand coming up to clasp her forehead. Damnit, why that one? She'd nearly forgotten, letting it lie undisturbed. "That one's personal."

Elijah stared at her for a moment, the intrigue and interest dancing in his eyes as if he was running through a range of responses in his mind. He pulled his hand back fractionally, then nodded at her. "Okay. It's alright."

The icy grip inside her chest thawed slightly. "What?"

"We all have things we'd rather not revisit. It's okay."

Susan took his hand in hers, pressed her cheek against his palm. "There are things I'm not prepared to share." She almost said, _right now_ , but would be… presumptuous. Ridiculous. And… something she really wanted to do. _Stop that_ , she told herself. _It's just a fantasy._

"I get that." Elijah rubbed his thumb over her cheekbone. "I won't pry."

"Let past things stay there," she murmured, then rolled atop Elijah, throwing one leg over to straddle him. "Let's live in the present."

"You don't need to do this," Elijah said quietly. "Trying to distract me? You can keep your secrets."

"Distraction, you say?" Susan wriggled her hips against his, grinned impishly as she felt his body react, and kissed him teasingly. She pulled back just the slightest amount. "Is it working?"

Elijah stared into her eyes for a long moment; she felt the rise and fall of his chest beneath her. His hands drifted up her legs, slipped over her waist and clasped behind her lower back. His gaze flickered down to her bare chest for an instant, and the corner of his mouth quirked in a half-grin. "Yes."

Susan went in for another kiss – and yelped in surprise as Elijah rolled them sideways across the bed, bringing her to her back as he grinned down at her. She returned the grin, then wrapped her legs around his hips and wrenched him sideways, putting her core into grappling him to the side and down onto the mattress. She used the momentum to roll atop him again, straddling Elijah as she pinned both his wrists to the bed.

"You had your turn in control," she said. "Now it's mine."

Elijah smirked up at her. "Whatever you say."

She leaned in, adjusting her hips as she locked lips with him. Despite her statement to Elijah the quiet voice in her mind disagreed. _You're not in control. Not really._ Pushing the thought aside, she let her body sink down and lost herself in the heat of the moment.

* * *

The rain outside had turned fully to snow with evening's onset. It beat down against the windows, stuck and melted against the warmth from within the room. Streaks of meltwater cut through the frost sheeting the panes. Elijah watched the rivulets flowing down the glass, keenly aware of where the warmth was coming from for him. Susan lay against his side, where she'd dozed off. Her breathing came as a pleasant rhythm, one he found himself enjoying to his own surprise. He looked over to her, coiled up like a satisfied kitten. His gaze drifted over to the scar on her forehead; it really was nigh-invisible except up close. And yet of all the marks of wounds accumulated during her career, that little one had drawn a reaction unlike any of the others. Why? Where had it come from?

And why was he so interested?

As if she sensed his scrutiny, Susan stirred and opened her eyes, looking at him with an expression he couldn't read. "Day's almost over."

"Yes," he said. "And what happens tomorrow? The day after?"

"Things return to the way they were," Susan said.

"That's how it is?"

"That's how it is." She shifted against him. "You still have a contract on you. And I'm the one who's supposed to hunt you down. So… I'm going to be looking between Thirty-Seventh and Forty-Fourth tomorrow, probably Forty-Fifty to Fiftieth the day after."

Elijah stared at her for a minute, unable to find his voice as his mind spun up. He cleared his throat. "Ah. And I think I've heard rumors of the Silver Mountain's target lurking around… Seventy-First. I should probably investigate."

"You probably should." She nipped him gently on the shoulder. "And I don't lurk."

"Well, maybe a little- Ow! Okay, okay." He chuckled as she nipped him again. "There's no lurking to be found."

"That's more like it," Susan said in an imperious tone of voice before giggling breathily.

Elijah leaned over and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "Wil you stay the night?"

"It's tempting," she said after a silent minute. "But I shouldn't. We had our fun. It's time to return to reality."

Susan pressed a hand to his chest for a moment, then moved away. He watched as she dressed in her robe, gathered her things, and walked to the door. She paused there and looked back at him. "Hope I don't see you around."

And with that she left. Elijah lay back and stared up at the ceiling as the door shut with a quiet thud. Susan was right. _Fun_ , that's what today had been. A little bit of fun. Okay, a lot of fun. Was that all it had been? He laughed despondently once. _What else could it be?_ His hand drifted to the scar that Sung Jialin had given him, the one that Susan had inquired about.

"You know what happens when you get close," he muttered. "So don't."


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

Snow coated the streets in a layer of dirty slush. Rizzi prowled through them, dressed against the weather and hood up over her head. She stopped before a laundromat, one that looked no different from countless others throughout the city. Tugging the door open, she stepped in to the sound of chattering washers and dryers. Bored-looking people sat around in the plastic chairs, fixated on their phones while waiting on their loads. The whole place looked worn and old, like it had been around for several decades, but well cared for and kept clean. Rizzi moved to the back where a clerk sat behind the counter.

"Whaddya need?" she said, flipping a pair of dreadlocks from her face.

Keeping her hand out of sight from the rest of the laundromat, Rizzi opened her fist to display the gold coin she held. "Is Mama Lucy in?"

The clerk nodded. "She's in the back," she said, and walked over to a nondescript door as she pulled a ring of keys from her pocket.

"Thank you," Rizzi said as the clerk held the door open, and walked through. Moving past the rear office, she entered a storage closet.

A few steps lead to a shelf laden with boxes of fabric softener at the far end. Rizzi tugged at the rightmost box on the bottom shelf, then reached up to the top and flipped a disguised lever. The shelf and the wall behind it swung smoothly aside on well-oiled hinges, revealing an old brick tunnel. Its musty scent greeted her nose as Rizzi made her way inwards.

The tunnel ended in a small, cavern-like chamber that looked like equal parts speakeasy, boarding house, and modern home office. The smell of the tunnel gave way to the aroma of pie and roasted chestnuts. A matronly black woman looked up from the array of screens before her as Rizzi entered. "Well, if it ain't Miss Rizzi. Heard you was in town. What took you so long to visit?"

"Hello, Mama Lucy," Rizzi said with a respectful nod. "I'm afraid I've been busy."

"Working for Marco Fabbro. What's a good girl like you doing with somebody like him?"

"You have a funny definition of 'good girl,'" Rizzi said. "It's just a contractor's life, I'm afraid."

Mama Lucy nodded and plucked at an imaginary piece of lint on her shoulder. "Fair enough. So, what can I do for you? You need to make some people vanish again? Those girls you sent me are gone now. I ain't telling you where, you know how it works."

"That's fine," said Susan. "I'm not asking." The girls Mama Lucy had been referring to had been from the Silver Mountain laundromat she'd hit a ways back. Lost, poor, and disenfranchised young women that slipped through the cracks and found themselves preyed upon by those in the shadows and in power.

Lucy had long been involved, she knew. Working in the shadows to move people, smuggle them through borders and making people vanish. The matronly woman had plentiful contacts not only throughout the city, but as far as Susan could tell much of the world. And yet the term "human trafficker" seemed an ill fit for Mama Lucy. She had a reputation for being _picky_ about her jobs, focusing on helping those on the run from darker things or previously trafficked individuals start over.

"So what is it now?" Lucy asked. "You got more bystanders you need whisked away?" She twitched a finger in Rizzi's direction. "Always like that about you, young lady. Keeping the body count low. I can respect the effort."

"Not right now." Rizzi paused, taking in the scent of pie for a moment. "Mama Lucy, are you connected with the Exodus Railroad?"

Lucy stared at her for a moment. "Dangerous thing to be asking, Miss Rizzi. What makes you wonder such a thing?"

"It's a logical assumption, isn't it? You move people around the world, you've got contacts and networks all over, and I know there's no way you do all that on your own. And we know what kind of moving jobs you do."

"You know appearances can be deceiving."

"Yes I do. You gonna give me a straight answer?"

Mama Lucy laughed, loud and boisterous. "Even if I were, you really think I'd just tell it to you like that? Come on now, girl, you know that sort of thing makes heads roll in the wrong circles!"

"Just thought I'd ask," Rizzi said, holding her hands up.

"What makes you so interested in this suddenly?" Lucy asked. "You never cared much about the Rail before."

"We stayed out of each other's ways. Keeps things simple."

"Could be, could be."

"Do you know of Elijah Wu? He said once he'd worked with Exodus teams before. Any truth in that?"

Mama Lucy smirked. "Elijah Wu, is it? That cat in town?"

"So you know him then. Is there any truth to that? The Exodus teams?"

"What's it to you, sugar?" She gave Rizzi another smirk. "You got that air about you…"

"The what now?"

"I seen it before. You looking for a reason to kill him, trying to work yourself up to it."

"Do you have anything to offer on that front?" Rizzi asked.

"I can tell you that killing Mister Wu won't make you many friends in the Rail."

"So he has worked with them before."

"Releasing the captives' chains." She gave Rizzi a pointed look. "Not so dissimilar from yourself, girl."

Rizzi moved over to the long, wooden table sitting next to the little kitchen space in the chamber. Here the aroma of pie was even stronger, and the heat cast by the old-fashioned, iron oven a warm comfort. She sat down at the bench and buried her face in her hands, releasing an exasperated groan. "So he's on the up-and-up with the Exodus Railroad."

"Some would say he's a damn hero," Mama Lucy said. "So I hear."

"Uh huh." Rizzi grinned at her, shaking her head. "I'm sure you've no idea where that notion came from."

"None whatsoever. That's what you came in for? I ought to feel insulted." She smiled back at Susan, showing she wasn't serious, and sat down across from her.

Rizzi glanced around the chamber; it had definitely been a speakeasy once during Prohibition. Rumor held that the place had even existed before that, as a part of the Underground Railroad. She didn't know if that was true, but enjoyed the idea given what Mama Lucy used it for. "I've got a contract for him."

Mama Lucy grunted once. "Silver Mountain and Fabbro going at it, fighting over what's left after Viggo went and got himself killed. Like two rats on a ship squabbling over a piece of cheese while the whole damn thing is sinking. Fools, the lot of them. And here you are, hiding in my sanctum instead of out there in the streets stalking him. Now why is that, I wonder?"

"Grilling me for information now?" Rizzi said.

"I'm naturally curious," said Mama Lucy. "Folks don't come here except to get themselves lost."

"I don't need your services right now."

"I wasn't talking about setting you up with another life. Just pointing out that you're hiding from something."

"It's complicated," Rizzi said with a sigh. "It's… I don't know what. And don't ask. Like I said, I don't know."

"That's a dangerous position to be in," Mama Lucy said, again pointing a finger towards her. You've got to know yourself, Rizzi. Everything else flows from that. Tell me: did you come in here looking for a reason to kill that cat, or a reason not to?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not to me it don't. But I suspect it might to _you_ , girl."

Rizzi made a disgruntled noise. "It shouldn't," she muttered.

"S'all good." Mama Lucy stood as a timer rang in the kitchen space, bustling off and humming to herself. "Was there anything else you wanted?"

Susan looked back up. "Is that chestnut pie I smell?"

"Last time, you said that this pie was for suckers and fools. Romantics drawn in by the holiday season." Lucy smirked as she returned with a piece on a plate and a fork. "People in love, you said."

"Things were different with me last time," Rizzi said, inhaling the scent of roasted chestnut and buttery pie crust.

"You weren't in love last time?" Mama Lucy suggested as she slid the pie before Rizzi.

"I wasn't hungry last time."

Mama Lucy burst into laughter, a musical rumble that echoed in her space. "And what's wrong with loving?"

"Nothing, except for the part where most of the time it's nothing real. Or the part where people think they're in love and do stupid things that end up getting them killed. Or the part where 'love' is just neurons in the brain misfiring. Take your pick."

"Ah, you're wrong there," said Mama Lucy. "Love is an exercise of will, one of the few cases of genuine agency allowed to us in this life."

Rizzi speared a chunk of pie and popped it into her mouth, savoring the extraordinary flavor. "You've lost me," she said after swallowing.

"Young folks these days. Y'all think life's just about the meat. Organs and guts."

"Gotta know where to put the bullets."

"Life's more than that. You can't ignore the will. It's the expression of the soul."

Rizzi laughed quietly. "That's… that's some major crap you're talking, Mama Lucy."

"Am I? You never been in a situation where you had to do something you didn't want to? Pull the trigger on somebody you didn't want to?"

"That's part of life. There's always something you don't have a choice about."

"Exactly!" Mama Lucy smiled at her. "There's all sorts of things we don't get to have choices about in this world. Love is one of those things we do. And I ain't talking that Mickey Mouse cartoon nonsense. Love is an exercise of will, a decision to commit to something or someone beyond yourself."

"Like I said, that's a lot of crap."

"You're very opposed to the idea. What's the matter, does it clash with the stone-cold killer image?"

"It clashes with the fact that I murder people for money." Strange, saying that out loud.

"Everybody has shortcomings," said Mama Lucy.

A laugh, high and manic, escaped from Rizzi. "Most would consider that one hell of a shortcoming!"

"I don't judge."

"Now why don't I believe that?"

"You believe what you want to." Lucy stood and brushed the front of her shirt down. "You asked me about the Exodus Railroad. Now, hypothetically, if they were involved in the city, one might not be surprised for them to keep an eye on the movers and the shakers and the professionals, you following? Now the Rail believes in its work, believes something fierce. It ain't afraid to get its hands dirty."

"So I've heard," said Rizzi.

"The Rail knows who's who. And more than one professional has had a contract go sideways on account of their… intervention."

"What are you trying to say?"

Mama Lucy looked calmly at her, giving away nothing. "There's a reason that hasn't happened to your jobs."

Still not encouraging. Rizzi planted an elbow on the table and frowned. "What, Exodus has my back? I find that hard to believe."

"Didn't say they had your back, just that they weren't looking for their pound of flesh from it."

"That's not reassuring." She paused, fork frozen in midair. "Why are you telling me this, anyway?"

"Something tells me you're gonna have some choices ahead of you, Miss Rizzi. You best learn to listen to your will. You got to know yourself, your boundaries. Understand which lines you'll cross and which you won't. Know what you got to hold on to and what you can let go of."

"Now you sound like an Exodus recruiter," Rizzi said.

"Do I?" Mama Lucy gave her a thin smile. "You finish your pie, now."

* * *

There was something about rooftops, in Elijah's estimation, that epitomized a city – any city. It heightened the characteristics: the skylines grew sharper, the street layouts came into a different focus that being at street level itself couldn't offer, and in some ways the solitude that came with the lack of people further reinforced the feeling of the modern city – that odd contradiction of being surrounded by people yet so completely alone.

Wu crossed his arms as he stood at the edge of an old brick building looking down. A large satellite dish dominated a good quarter of the rooftop, its round shape casting a deep shadow over the surface. This was the sixth rooftop he'd covered over the course of the day. No Rizzi – so everything was going according to plan. And how long could they keep things that way, he wondered?

A white bird flittered past into the shadow of the dish. Wu watched it land, and wondered briefly at the sight; he'd always assumed the birds would migrate come winter. Then the staircase door creaked open.

Wu slipped a hand beneath his coat, getting a grip on his pistol. A man in a tattered coat stepped out. He wore a dark skullcap with tufts of hair peeking out from underneath. He seemed surprised to see Wu and paused in place as two more similarly dressed men filed out after him. None of them drew weapons but Wu felt certain they were armed – and a hair's breadth from action. Guards. They spread out slightly, forming a rough triangle before the doorway, and one final person stepped out.

He was an older man, dark-skinned with gray hair and beard, his bulk evident through the thick layers he wore. Clutching the lapels of his coat, he gave Wu a mirthless smile. "You're lost," he said, tone jovial and mocking. "Trespassing, even."

"My apologies," said Wu. "Didn't see a sign. I was just looking for some peace and quiet."

The man stretched a hand out and the bird – a dove – fluttered out from beneath the dish to him. "You're not a regular here."

"This here rooftop?" Wu said. "No, I suppose-"

"This here city," the man said. "You're a long way from home, Mister Wu."

"You know me?" Wu tensed, preparing to move. Draw and fire, step to the side. Closest man first. Sidestep would place that guy between Wu and the one on the far left. Buy time to switch right to the third guy before going back to finish-

"Educated guess." The man cradled the bird to his chest and grinned again. "The Silver Mountain's certainly been busy lately. Word gets around of who they're using."

"You have me at a disadvantage then, Mister…?"

The man chuckled. "I'm just one more person in this weird and wacky world of ours, friend. You didn't think this little war between Fabbro and the Silver Mountain is all that's going on in this city, did you? The world's bigger than you know." The grin disappeared. "What are you doing here?"

"Like I said, just looking for some peace and quiet."

He nodded and strolled past Wu towards the roof edge, turning his back on the assassin with a nonchalance that Wu found unnerving. "The rooftops would be the place for it in this city," he said. "Not many places you can get away from things here."

"And it seems I've intruded upon one of yours," Wu said. "Again, my apologies. I'll show myself out."

"One moment. There is the slight matter of your toll."

Wu paused, glancing between the expressionless guards. "And what might that be?"

"The answer to a question."

"That rather depends on the question, sir."

"So it does." The man nodded and turned away from the city to face Wu. "What are you running from?"

"Who says I'm running from anything?"

The man smirked at him. "Do I look new to this?"

"Not really." Wu still didn't know who this guy was – and that bothered him. But if there was one cardinal rule in their world, it was to be polite and professional. Oh yeah, and have a plan to kill everybody you met. Especially with strangers. "Alright, let's just say I'm… putting off something distasteful."

"Hmm." He nodded once and stroked the bird in his hands. "A man could wonder what a person like you finds distasteful."

"You could, sir. But that would be another question now, wouldn't it?"

"That it would, Mister Wu, that it would." The man nodded again and glanced towards the door. "You're free to go."

"I appreciate it." Wu moved for the door.

"The rooftops aren't your place," the man called. "Man on the run doesn't have any place, anywhere. Especially a man running from his own circumstances."

"I'll keep that in mind." With that he reached for the door and left quickly, before the mysterious man could change his mind.

* * *

Rizzi gunned the engine as she drove through the streets. Not the smartest thing she could do, given that the snowfall had come down and coated the ground in a dirty brown slush. She could feel the difference in the way the tires struggled to grip the road. But that wasn't what she was paying attention to. A glance at the rearview mirror confirmed her suspicion; the sleek blue SUV that she'd noticed several blocks back, keeping pace with her.

She was fairly certain she knew who was in it, too. Rizzi had spotted them as she'd left Mama Lucy's behind: a group of three Asian-looking men moving around the streets like a patrol. They'd spotted her too, even as she moved the other way and drew her hood up. There hadn't been any reason to confront them, so she'd hoped to just move on. The men had tailed her at a distance in no particular hurry. Not surprising, given that they were all in the open in the middle of the city. At least _that_ much decorum remained. She thought she'd lost them when she got to her car and drove away, but evidently no such luck.

But maybe she was just being paranoid. Rizzi cut her speed, giving the other car an opportunity to pass. She sighed as it slowed down to match her new velocity; these guys weren't great at this whole "surreptitiously tailing somebody" thing. Almost insulting, really. She also caught a glimpse of the driver – one of the three from earlier, indeed. Another sigh, this one a mix of exasperation and relief. While it was annoying that these three had picked up on her, she supposed it was also better than having another, unknown force trailing her.

Rizzi drove on, keeping an eye on her followers. She felt the same reluctance to start anything here and now; they were, of course, still driving around the city streets. Bad idea to go loud. So maybe they'd tail her all the way to the Continental – and that would be that. It'd be suicide for them to try anything there. She swung the car through a turn – and went as cold as the dirty slush that slung through the air.

How had they found her? Had somebody tipped them off? She grimaced; _somebody_ could only be one person. _Damn it all._

She was several blocks from the Continental when the other car made its move, undoubtedly spurred by how close they were getting to neutral ground. The SUV pulled ahead with a roar, slipped into place between her car and the one in front, and braked hard. Rizzi stomped on her brake pedal to avoid rear-ending the enemy car, and slewed the wheel over, peeling into the next lane.

The other car responded by swinging over; she wasn't fast enough to avoid it, and the rear quarter of the SUV slammed into her front bumper with a loud crunch and a jolt that ran up her spine. She fought to keep control of the car, working the wheel and gas to keep herself from getting run off the street. Her bumper and the SUV's remained locked together as they careened down the road, other cars around them honking frantically.

Then the rear window of the SUV rolled down and a hand clutching a gun swung out towards her. Rizzi pressed herself to the side as the muzzle flashed once, twice. The bark of the pistol drowned out the sound of the windshield cracking, but the haze of spiderweb fractures was unmistakable. She drew her weapon and returned fire carefully, punching a hole through the car door. Past the bulk of the SUV she saw the next street junction coming up with alarming speed, the pole of the streetlight and the stone corner of the building on the street, and-

Oh, this was a really bad idea.

She floored the accelerator, making the engine roar as the car surged forward, pushing the SUV along. Rizzi braced herself just before impact. The SUV, forced along its trajectory by her car, slammed into the pole with a scream of metal and spun off into the building corner with a resounding thud. Rizzi's car clipped the pole but she regained control enough to steer it back into the street, and-

The sedan barreled through the intersection and t-boned her, its tires skidding on the wet road.

The impact jolted Rizzi against the door as her vehicle lost its forward momentum and came to a halt in the middle of the street, the other car embedded in its flank. A pair of gunshots rang out over the din of honking and screams broke out. The occupants of the SUV, trying to finish the job. Smoke billowed out from under its hood, its left side folded around the building corner. Wrecked car, however, did not necessarily mean wrecked assailants. _Move, damn it!_

Rizzi fumbled with the seatbelt release for a second, snarled, and went for her knife instead. She tore it from her pocket, deployed the blade, and sawed through the seatbelt with one hand while her other raised her gun and fired back through the windshield at the Silver Mountain car. The seatbelt came apart with a sudden release of tension and she kicked the driver door open.

She dove out of the car and rolled to her feet. The driver of the sedan that had hit her bailed out of his vehicle and ran the other way at a dead sprint. Away from the gunshots – _smart guy._ Rizzi moved towards them.

The passenger door of the SUV swung open and she pressed herself behind the engine block of her car. Contrary to the bullshit that Hollywood tended to perpetuate, car bodies didn't stop bullets any more than pie crust stopped a fork tine. One of the men stepped from the passenger door, looking a little worse for the wear. Understandable, given that his car had just embraced a stone building. Rizzi almost felt bad, lining her sights up. She pressed the trigger four times and the man dropped.

A barrage of return fire forced her down, soaking her legs through in the melting snow. She needed to end this quick; it wouldn't be long before emergency services arrived. Rizzi reached back through her car door and tugged the trunk release handle. She fired several more shots at the smoking SUV, felt her pistol lock empty, and holstered it. Staying low, she fast-crawled towards the rear of her car as distant honking filled the streets again.

Rizzi made it to the trunk and pulled her messenger bag out. She threw the flap back, tossed it over her shoulder, and pulled her carbine out. Unfolding the stock with a swift tug, she raised herself to a high crouch, brought the weapon to her shoulder and lined her eye up with the red dot sight.

The rear door of the SUV flung open, propelled by a booted foot. Rizzi moved forward at a fast walk, firing between each rolling step. She placed the shots into the opening, heard the cry of pain from within, and fired several more shots to be sure. The roar of the discharging rifle made harsh, flat echoes in the cityscape canyon.

She came up to the rear of the SUV, peered in through the rear window, and put two more through it into the back seat. Excessive, maybe, but this wasn't exactly a _finesse_ situation. A second later, when no bullets came back towards her, she stepped around to the side of the car, weapon at the ready.

The occupant in the back seat wasn't going to be moving, talking, or doing anything other than wait for a trip to the morgue. Ditto the one sprawled outside the passenger door. She swung her carbine over to the driver. The impact of the crash had crumpled the driver door in and pinned him in place. Airbags hung flaccid around him. The man, who had colorful tattoos going up his neck, had his left arm pressed up against his chest by the disfigured door. He was trying to reach a pistol that had fallen to the floor of the passenger seat.

Rizzi's finger tightened on the trigger – then she backed off it, and keeping the muzzle trained on the man, reached out and nabbed the pistol. The man looked up at her, a mix of fear and resignation in his face.

"Who sent you?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"How'd you know where I was?" She jabbed the rifle forward. _"WHO SENT YOU?_ How did you know?"

The man stared back at her, his confusion evident. Rizzi shifted the rifle, lining the muzzle up with his eye. "We… didn't." He raised his free hand towards her, palm outstretched in entreaty. "We didn't! Nobody sent us!"

She glared at him for a moment; he did look very confused by her questions, but then that could be the car crash talking. "Who sent you!?" she said again.

He groaned, shook his head. "Just patrolling," he said. "Saw your hood." They hadn't known about her specifically. Of all the dumb luck… Well, better than the alternative.

Rizzi tightened the carbine against her shoulder. It'd be cleanest and easiest to execute him now. But… this person wasn't an immediate threat anymore, and killing him would just be cruel, not that it would have stopped her once upon a time.

She backed away from the wrecked car, gun still at the ready, until she made it back to her car. The faintest wail of sirens had started to sound in the distance. _Time to go._

The Continental was only several blocks away now. Rizzi rummaged through the car's emergency kit and seized a road flare. She put two rounds into the gas tank, then snapped the carbine stock closed and stowed it into her bag. With gas dribbling to the ground, she lit the road flare and tossed it into the growing puddle. The rental company wouldn't be thrilled, but she'd put up with some polite reminders to not destroy vehicles in return for ditching some forensic evidence. As the flames licked up from the pool of gas to the car, Rizzi ran from the scene for the Continental.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

"This what you call keeping a low profile, doll?" Fabbro said, holding up a tablet with a picture of the scene from yesterday. "Torching a car in the middle of a street?"

Rizzi winced. "Wouldn't have been my first choice, but stuff happened."

"'Stuff happened'? Oh really?"

"A Silver Mountain patrol caught sight of me," she said. "Bad luck."

"I don't pay you to have bad luck," Fabbro said, fiddling with the pin on his breast as he prowled around the penthouse room. "That was sloppy."

She didn't disagree with that.

"The hell were you doing that got their attention anyways?"

"Looking for that Silver Mountain contractor," Rizzi said. "I wasn't trying to make a scene, just get some information."

"What'd you learn?"

"That he wasn't in that group yesterday."

Fabbro rolled his pin in his fingers. "You aren't helping your case, doll."

"Trust me, getting into a vehicular firefight wasn't on my agenda either."

"And you got no word on this guy. What is he, a fuckin' ghost?"

"It's a big city, Marco. It's hardly a surprise that somebody could disappear for a while."

Fabbro scowled, etching lines across his face as he sat down and steepled his fingers before him. "Time's not my friend here, Rizzi. Winter is here. Shit's slow, everybody's hunkering down. You know how it works."

"I know. But I can't wave my hand and make him appear out of thin air."

He glowered at Rizzi like it was her fault she couldn't. "Maybe not. But there's other ways. Edmondo tells me they put a contract on you – you hit them again, you might get a response like when you went after Xiao Ma, huh?"

"You mean be bait," Rizzi said dryly.

"I don't care what you call it," said Fabbro. "Look, I get that moving around the city may be trickier come winter. And I'm not telling you to knock on their doors and announce yourself – though that might be easier if we actually knew where Shun kept himself, huh?"

"You just want me to kick some hornets' nests and see what stirs up?"

"Isn't that called reconnaissance?"

"It's only recon if you get meaningful information out of it. If you just get killed, it's called failure."

Fabbro grunted. "I'm not saying you should stick around at places and make like the Alamo, huh? But you hit some places, you let them know you're active, you're around. We see how they respond and go from there."

"That's… not particularly reassuring."

"Do I look like I care?" Fabbro said, scowling as he fiddled with his pin again. "You do your job. That's what matters."

"Yeah. I got it. So, what kind of targets did you have in mind?"

* * *

She left Fabbro's penthouse with a sour taste in her mouth – as it so often felt like these days. This whole affair had started her senses tingling; she'd seen jobs go sideways before when the people involved got too close.

Well, perhaps "too close" was an inaccurate term. There tended to be a certain amount of… call it _investment_ when contracting assassinations, after all. Even the most callous hired murder tended to contain elements of self-interest. Few commissioned an assassin without something to gain from it. No, perhaps the term she was looking for was _obsession_.

The best contracts – the safest ones, at least – were those with a certain level of professional detachment. They were the ones offered by people who could see the big picture, who could keep their eye on a goal and not get sidetracked by details or shifting circumstances. Something unexpected come up? Fine, it happens. Things went sideways when people made it too personal. Like Viggo Tarasov: rumor had it that he'd basically settled things with John Wick – admittedly at gunpoint, but what could you do. Then he'd turned around, offed old Marcus, and taunted Wick about it. Susan had never met Wick, but from what she'd heard, that was akin to pumping a bear full of stims and then kicking its cubs in front of it.

Fabbro, she had the unfortunate feeling, seemed to be headed the same way. He'd always had a reputation for being hotheaded about things – that was one of the ways Viggo had been able to steer him around – and this conflict with the Silver Mountain brought out the worst of it. Or maybe he'd always viewed assets as disposable and she was only realizing it now that _she_ was in the position.

Just keep things neat and sectioned. That had always worked for her – but then, she wasn't trying to manage an underworld war, was she? Rizzi sighed as she walked down the street, the cold front having broken into a mere hazy chill. Where had this latest bout of introspection come from? She got her bearings, pointed herself towards Chinatown, and kept moving.

* * *

Easing the apartment door open, Wu slipped in without a sound and scanned the entranceway. This place was a far cry from the upscale apartment the Silver Mountain had used to ambush Rizzi. But then, it wasn't like this place was Fabbro's personal residence.

The entrance led to one of those short little foyers common to many an apartment. The smell of pizza grease mingled with that of gun lube and solvents. "Jimmy, that you?"

Wu responded by moving forward into the living room. Three men sat around a central table in the living room, two boxes of pizza open between them. They wore winter coats instead of heating the room. He rushed in as they rose, shoving chairs back at the sight of an intruder in their midst.

He stepped in to meet the first man, jabbing two stiffened fingers into his throat while he used the man's body to shield himself from the others. No guns yet; they must not have been eager to start a shootout in the middle of an apartment complex either.

Instead the one on the left pulled a knife while the one on the right planted one hand on the table and vaulted over – only to tumble down cursing as Wu flipped one of the hot pizzas into his face. Slamming the first man's head into the table, Wu intercepted the knife-wielder with a kick and a parry, nearly getting his forearm slashed open in the process. He danced back a step as the man made a horizontal slash, then lunged back in and struck out at his wrist. The blow sent the knife hand out to the side and Wu hurled the man back with a kick to the chest.

He put the pizza-faced man down with an elbow blow to the back of the head as he rounded the table towards the knife-wielder. Snapping one hand across the knife-hand wrist and his other across the throat, Wu drove the man back another step.

Then he had to twist to avoid the blade as the man came back in with a tackle, wrapping his arms around Wu as he tried to plunge the knife home. Wu stopped the tip of the blade a hair's breadth from his neck, then wrenched at the man's wrist as they grappled. He got leverage on the arm and wrenched the man down with a floorboard shaking thud.

They rolled around, bashing into the table legs as they both wrestled for control of the knife. Wu wedged the blade of his hand up beneath his opponent's chin, forcing his head up and back. As the man grunted and shoved back he tucked his own head down, taking the blow on his shoulder to get control of the man's wrist. Wu snapped his free hand down into the crook of the man's elbow, which proved enough to collapse his arm – and drive the blade up through the bottom of the man's jaw.

The man gave one gurgling twitch and then fell still. Wu shoved the body aside and climbed to his feet with a groan, rubbing his calf where he'd banged it against the table. He listened for a moment to check if the brief struggle had drawn attention from any neighbors, but nothing indicated it had.

Wu made a brief circuit of the apartment. The info Xiao Ma had given him indicated this was one of the many places Fabbro kept a stash of weapons: it wasn't one of the larger ones, but hitting it would still be irritating to Fabbro. He found the weapons in the main closet; two racks of assault rifles and another dozen handguns with serial numbers filed off. Too many for him to cart away alone, but there was a way around that.

He nabbed one of the spare duffel bags in the room and set about methodically field-stripping the weapons with practiced swiftness, taking the rifles' firing pins and the pistols' slides and tossing them into the duffel bag. When he'd finished that he hefted the bag over his shoulder and slipped out of the apartment. The bag rustled with metal jingling together. Hauling it over to the garbage chute, Wu dumped the whole thing down and went on his way.

Checking in with Tiger Shun earned him another expected admonition to find Rizzi, to complete the contract, and so on. Elijah took it quietly and affably, nodding along with every point. After that he left, hit the streets again.

And the day after that.

And then the day after that he returned to the Continental late at night to find a note slipped under the door of his room.

* * *

"What'll you have?" Addy asked as she tucked several bottles back into position behind the bar.

Susan dithered for a moment, thinking it over. What was she in the mood for – and what might actually stump the Continental bartender? "How about… a Golden Dawn?"

Addy's smile practically lit up the bar. "Coming right up!"

Susan chuckled and threw her hands up. There was no winning. She leaned up against the bar as Addy rummaged around for the ingredients – juicing an orange, pouring spirits by eye, and retrieving a bottle of what she knew was handmade grenadine.

A man walked through the speakeasy space, drawing deferent nods and greetings everywhere he went. An older man, his gray-streaked dark hair framed a craggy face marked with lines. He held a book and pad in one hand. "Good evening, Miss Rizzi," said Winston, as he passed the bar towards his customary booth.

"Evening," said Susan, suddenly serious.

"And how are you?" His voice was a gravelly rumble against the electro-swing quartet going on the stage.

"Well enough. Enjoying the music."

"It is rather _contemporary_ , isn't it?"

"You sound like you disapprove."

Winston's eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch. "Nothing so forceful. I merely bear a preference for, shall we say, the old-fashioned classics. Timeless, as one could put it."

Rizzi nodded politely; the truth was she'd always felt a touch uneasy speaking with Winston. Well, more than a touch. Oh, he was always congenial enough, but Continental Management never seemed like the proper small talk partner, any more than one made friends with a mountain range or tempest. You kept your distance from such forces of nature, lest they rolled over you without regard.

What he said next didn't exactly calm her nerves. "So, you've been busy."

Rizzi paused. "Haven't we all?"

Winston shrugged noncommittally as Addy arrived with her drink order. "A Golden Dawn, is it? Still trying to stump Addy, are you?"

"Haven't managed it yet, but I'll get her one of these days."

"The trick," he said, leaning against the bar like a chatty regular, "is ingredients that no longer exist." He nodded at the bartender. "Addy is quite the mixological sorceress, but resurrecting a bygone elixir can be beyond even her sometimes."

"That would be cheating," Susan said.

"So it would be, Miss Rizzi." Winston looked askance at her for a moment. "But then, many things in our world can only be attained by… shall we call it an overly flexible interpretation of the guidelines?"

"That seems a tad risky."

"Oh, very much so. Almost as risky as, say, becoming involved with another professional while under rivalling contracts."

Oh _. Shit._ How did he know? Susan took a quick sip of her drink to hide her shock, and tried to look innocent. It actually wasn't that surprising, if she thought about it; the Management of the Continental had always been far so deeply involved with the underworld of the city – and beyond – that sometimes it seemed nothing happened without their knowledge. But she'd never been on the receiving end of that uncanny omniscience. It wasn't particularly reassuring. "That, uh, that would indeed be risky," she said.

Winston nodded knowingly and gave her a little smile. "Have a pleasant evening, Miss Rizzi."

Susan watched him stroll off towards his booth and belatedly realized she was holding her breath. She blew it out slowly, shook her head once, and took another sip.

"He likes you, you know," said Addy.

"He does?" Susan said. "That's… kind of scary."

"Oh, Winston's not so bad. He's practically fluffy at times."

Susan stared at her for a moment. "You're kidding."

"I did say _practically._ " Addy cocked her head to the side. "Look: you respect the Continental rules and you usually don't make trouble with your contracts. That gets you more credit than you think, Susan."

"That's not particularly reassuring."

"You worry too much."

"It keeps me alive," Susan said.

"It's debatable whether that's truly living."

She grimaced at Addy for a second, uncomfortable with how incisive that remark felt. She took another sip of her drink instead and savored the mix of flavors, the way the herbal notes of the gin and the tartness of the orange juice played off one another while peach and apple brandy notes brought it all together. Addy had knocked it out of the park – again. "I'm probably never going to bring up a drink you can't handle, will I? Hell, you probably make some of the ingredients that aren't around anymore."

The bartender smirked.

"I should probably just tell you to surprise me every time I'm here. Put my fate in your hands."

Addy quirked one eyebrow. "Now that doesn't sound like you at all. What happened to the iron lady who had control over everything in her life?"

"I don't know," Susan admitted. "Maybe I've spent the last couple of weeks getting shot at too much to care anymore."

"Or something else?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Of course you- Oh, gimme a few?" Addy nodded at Susan as another patron moved up to the bar. She stepped away, spoke briefly to the customer, and repeated the process of gathering the components for another of her alcoholic elixirs.

Susan looked around the speakeasy space again, searching the faces of those gathered there. Her gaze fell upon Winston, who now sat at his customary booth and looked deeply immersed in the codex before him. How much _did_ he know – and how much did he care? Would he see it as an applicable case of the Continental's neutrality, or an abuse of it?

Shaking herself, she looked away and went back to watching the crowd. It seemed smaller than several weeks ago, which might have been a testament to the hardening winter or people moving on with the dissolution of Wick's contract. Those were the smart ones, she thought, the ones who had just moved on and not gotten entangled with shadow wars and rival contracts and-

"Who are you waiting for?" Addy asked when she returned from the other order.

"What makes you think-"

"You keep looking around the room," Addy said. "And not in that routine check sort of way."

Sometimes it was easy to forget the woman was the bartender for the Continental, undoubtedly well-versed in the ways of surviving their merciless world. "It's- Let's say an acquaintance." Because hell if _she_ knew what their relationship was.

"Right." Addy's impish smile peeked out again. "I think I have an idea."

Susan covered her own smile with another sip of her drink. She thought back to their exchange several minutes ago. "Do you think people can change?"

"In some deep transformational sense?" Addy said, shrugging. "I'm not- Hmm. Who can say?"

"In this case, I'm thinking you," Susan said dryly.

Addy turned serious. "There was this guy, a while back. The cold, stoic type, you know. Hard as nails. Then he vanishes one day. Got out of the game."

"Okay."

"And then one day he appears again, out of the blue. But he was different, like I'd never seen him before."

"How so?" Susan tilted her head slightly; this seemed like something personal to the other woman. Something different. They chatted and teased and drank, but neither shared personal things. That just wasn't the way of their world.

"He was softened," Addy said, then shook her head. "No, not quite it. He'd never be _soft_. It was more like… he'd found something but then lost it. Like he'd been hurt in a way I wouldn't have thought possible before."

"You're saying he changed while he was gone."

"Or he got out because he changed. Of course, there's the fact that he came back into the fold, so if that's any indication, how much does anybody ever really change?"

"That's…" Susan shook her head. "I don't know if that's reassuring or depressing. Thanks, Addy."

"I fix drinks. I don't fix people."

She chuckled at that, raised her glass in a mock toast. "I won't argue with that." Susan tapped her fingertips against the glass stem. "Who was this person?"

"Oh, I'm sure you've heard of him," Addy said with another shake of her head. "But I'm not sure he'd appreciate his identity being handed out like that."

"Why? Are you in danger?"

"Not like that. I'm doing it for his sake. And no offense, Susan, but you shouldn't tangle with him. Leave it at that."

Susan stared back at her for a moment, intrigued despite the warning and running through a mental list. Addy couldn't be talking about-

"I think he's here."

"What?"

"Person you're waiting for?" Addy nodded over her shoulder.

Susan turned to see Elijah Wu moving through the crowd towards them, his dress shirt open at the collar without a tie. She felt a smile creep across her face of its own volition and fought it back. _Down, girl._

"What's your poison?" Addy asked as he stepped up to the open spot beside Susan.

"That seems an unfortunate choice of words," Elijah said. "Let me get a… seems like something apple-based should be in season. How about a Jack Rose?"

"Good choice," said Addy. She bustled off, repeating her sequence of gathering drink components with experienced ease.

Elijah waited silently while Addy mixed up his drink, during which Susan looked him over – checking for any sign of his activities, she told herself. Addy slid the finished drink over atop a napkin. "Enjoy, you two," she said with a surreptitious wink at Susan before stepping back.

"Shall we find a table?" Susan said.

"That sounds good," Elijah said. He appeared to be enjoying the music as they wandered the place, selecting a table in what passed for a quiet corner of the speakeasy. "What did you want to see me about?" he asked once they'd sat down.

"How are you?" Susan said. Strange, how it had felt less awkward when they were just making love.

He gazed at her for a moment, eyebrows raised quizzically. "Still alive. You?"

"The same. Fabbro is growing impatient though."

"Ah." He spied his drink, set it down on the table. "Shun is getting like that as well."

"I don't know how long I can keep him from this," she admitted. "He really wants you dead."

"Story of my life." Elijah didn't seem particularly concerned. "Was there something you wanted me to do about that?"

"I'm not relying on you for a solution. I can handle this."

"How? By killing me when you grow bored?" he said, his tone light and teasing.

"Is that what you think of me?" Susan asked after a moment.

He sighed, reached across the table, and took her hand in his. "No. It isn't. It would be easier if that were the case, but I guess life's not that simple."

"It's not like we helped ourselves here."

"No, we didn't." Elijah leaned in closer. "Why did you leave me that note? You this'll only complicate things."

"Why did you come then?" she replied.

"Call it curiosity," he said. "Maybe of the morbid, self-destructive kind, but curiosity nonetheless."

"Oh, of course. And not because you're looking for somebody to warm your bed again?"

"Is that what you think of me?"

"I don't know," she replied. "Should I?"

"If you choose to," he said, "it isn't like I could stop you. You have that agency as a person."

Susan blinked at him. "That's oddly philosophical."

"If you say so. Just seems like a basic reality of the human condition to me." He took another sip of his drink and nodded appreciatively. "Why do you care what I think of you?"

"Do you really need that explained to you?"

"I might. It depends on what we're doing here, Susan. Why you asked me to meet you. Like you said, we've had our fun. Is there something else?"

She couldn't quite judge his voice. It wasn't scorn or dismissal, that much she knew. It might have been desire, or hope, or maybe she was just projecting. _This shouldn't be so hard,_ she told herself. _You've already slept with him. Multiple times._ Maybe that was the problem. She'd been the one to call it a bit of fun; why should he think it had been anything but? "I wanted to see you."

He looked taken aback by that. "That's it? Really?"

"Is that so hard to believe?" she said, her voice low and thick.

He stared at her for a long moment, long enough that Susan almost felt like she'd rather be exchanging bullets with him than this. "I've learned to be wary of things I want to be true," he said quietly. "Wishful thinking is good at getting people killed."

"I- No, you're right." Susan made to shift back, open some distance.

Elijah reached out again and clasped her hand. "I want to believe it, Susan. I haven't stopped thinking about you the past days. I can't get you out of my mind – and I don't want to."

 _Really?_ A feeling like warm honey spread through her chest. "Are you just saying that to make me drop my guard?" she said, but even as she grinned Susan intertwined their fingers, reveling in the warmth of his hand, the feel of his calluses and fingertips against her skin.

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" Elijah said.

"I almost don't care," Susan said – and realized she was being honest.

Elijah brought her hand up and planted a kiss across her knuckles. "You know, I have a lot of regrets about the things I've done, the choices I've made."

"Like sleeping with me?"

He shook his head. "No, not that. Not ever. I regret the choices leading up to having a contract against you."

"Do you?" Susan said through a suddenly dry throat.

"Being around you makes me regret not being a better person," Elijah said. "You make me-"

"No." She shook her head in a savage twist. "Don't pull the tortured hitman routine with me. You don't get a monopoly on that. We both made the choices and did the things that led us here." A bitter laugh escaped from Susan. "So we wouldn't be here like this if we weren't so screwed up."

"Well, that brings up some unpleasant implications."

"Such as?" Susan asked, and sipped her drink.

"Such as maybe I don't deserve to-"

"What? Have me? Don't be a-"

"Have your affections, I meant. If the paths leading here had to be this way, perhaps we're-"

"There's no changing the things we've done," Susan said. "What's in the past will always be there."

"If there's some kind of a… cosmic balance or ledger, we both have some serious debts racked up," said Elijah.

"I know," she said quietly. "But maybe there's at least one good thing that can come from our choices."

His grip on her hand tightened ever so slightly, and she heard the hitch in his breath. "I wish things were different," Elijah said, his own voice barely above a whisper against the electronic, jazzy notes filling the air.

"I'm going to assume you're referring to the contracts."

"That is what I mean, yes. I wish things were different between us there."

"And-" Susan paused, barely believing she was talking about this, "what about the other thing?"

Elijah grinned, part-roguishly and part-sheepishly. "You mean the sex?"

"Yes, that."

"I- Could there be more?" he said. "Understand that I am in no way complaining about the sex itself. It's just…"

"You've had better?"

"What? No, I really haven't. I'm trying to say I enjoy being with you regardless. Just like this – here, now." Elijah sighed. "Look, there aren't many people I can talk to about what I do, who I am. And most of the others in this business? Forget it. That's like smearing yourself with chum and jumping into a pack of sharks."

Susan nodded. "Yeah, I get that."

"Yes you do," Elijah said. "You get it – you understand what it's like. And you understand _me._ When I'm with you, I feel like I'm with somebody I can trust."

"I know." Susan fought to slow her suddenly racing heart. "Like I can choose to be not alone when you're here."

He nodded. "You're dangerous, Susan."

"Care to elaborate on that?"

"It means you muddle things up. I don't know if I can remain objective about you."

"And that's not good for people like us," Susan said. So that was it, then. "You'll walk away?"

"From this?" He squeezed her fingers gently.

"You should."

"And what about you?"

Susan held her breath for a long moment. _You should_ , she told herself. _You really should._ "I asked you to meet, so that says something about my objectivity, doesn't it?"

Elijah smiled, a slow curve of his mouth full of pain and quiet longing. "So what now?"

Susan downed the rest of her drink. "It may be a bad idea, but right now I plan to get another cocktail, invite you up to my room, and figure more things out tomorrow. You up for that?"

"I really shouldn't," he said, then finished off his own drink. "But let's start with another cocktail."

"And see where it goes?"

"See where it goes," Elijah said, standing and extending a hand towards her.

Arm-in-arm, they made their way through the speakeasy towards the bar. They passed Winston's booth a ways off. Susan noticed his clinical gaze and gave the older man a cordial nod, which he returned.

"Is that who I think it is?" Elijah asked, leaning in.

"Yes."

"You never told me you were on speaking terms with Continental Management."

"I really wasn't," Susan replied. "I didn't even think he knew who I was until tonight."

"Huh. Do you suppose that means anything?"

"I don't know. I mean, the Continental pretty much stays out of things until they directly impact the organization or its ways. I'm not sure where we fall in those categories."

"That isn't reassuring," Elijah said.

"No, it really isn't," she said. "Just keep your head down."

Addy had just finished up another order when they arrived at the bar. She gave them a smile that only partially revealed her exhaustion. "Another round?"

"I'll take what you're having," Elijah said to Susan. "You always seem to have interesting drinks."

"It's a game we play," Susan said. "I try to come up with a drink that stumps her. If I succeed it's on the house."

"You ever win?"

"Not yet."

"Care to try your luck again?" Addy asked, grinning.

Susan felt the smile creep across her face. "Surprise me."


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

The next morning the weather had returned to the biting chill of winter, cold enough to leave a sheen of frost coating the windows outside her room. Susan paid it no mind, wrapped in a tangle of sheets from last night's activities. She stared at Elijah, asleep against her. He looked subtly different like this: softer and unguarded, something she suspected didn't happen often when he wasn't alone, if her own experience was any indication. The rise and fall of his chest came as a rhythmic pattern against hers – a sensation, Susan admitted to herself, which she would happily grow used to.

 _Happy_. What a foolish idea. As if it was some neatly packaged thing, some fairy-tale state to attain. Relationships didn't work like that. Relationships _were_ work. Hard, torturous, continuous effort to maintain. She'd always thought of it like firing a belt-fed machine gun unsupported at a target four hundred meters away. You could make hits, sure, but it was tiring and likely to result in a lot more shredded scenery downrange than being smart and doing it some other way.

Alright, so maybe she didn't have the healthiest perspectives on relationships. But it wasn't like she was _in_ one. _No, you're just waking up next to a guy after arranging to meet him after sleeping with him after shooting him after having slept with him_ already _while you were supposed to kill him,_ said the treacherous little voice in her head.

Alright, maybe it was a little more complicated than she'd initially admitted.

And _why_ was she thinking about this now, anyways? _This is trouble._ Susan laughed softly at herself.

Elijah's eyes snapped open, his gaze darting around the room in an instant before settling on her. "You're still here," he murmured.

"How do you do that?" she said.

"Do what now?" He propped himself up onto his elbows and leaned back.

"Look at me like that. Like it's the first time you're seeing me or something."

"Did I do that? Maybe I'm just unused to waking up next to you."

"Does that-" Susan paused, drawing the blankets up around her body. "Does that imply that you could? Get used to it?"

"I think it does," Elijah said. "Are you talking about making this a regular thing?"

Susan paused, feeling like she'd just spotted a targeting laser dancing over her chest. "Maybe," she said after a moment. "Which part of 'this' are you talking about?"

"I'm not sure. What part did _you_ have in mind?"

Susan laughed at that, low and helplessly. "Look at us," she said. "How messed up are we that we can talk about things like ballistics penetration but not our relationship?"

"Pretty screwed up," he said, also chuckling. Then he grew sober. "About this – us – there's also quite a spectrum of…" He paused.

"Choices?" Susan said. "Commitments?"

"You could put it like that." Elijah rolled over to his side, facing her. "I suppose there's everything from walking away now and hooking up once a year to-" He paused again, a contemplative expression settling over his face. "To _really_ walking away together."

"Retire?" Susan said, her heart flipping at the thought.

"Yeah. Get away from this – all of it. Disappear together and do something else with our lives before this one grinds us into dust."

"Are you serious?" she said quietly.

"It was just a thought, but – yes." Elijah took her hand. "I meant what I said last night, Susan. Knowing you makes me want to be different – better."

"And like I said, those choices we made brought us to this point."

"I'm not disagreeing with you. I'm saying…" He reached up, stroked her cheek softly with a thumb. "This life poisons our souls. Consumes it, bit by bit. I used to think I didn't care, that it didn't matter. And maybe in the grand scheme of things it doesn't. But you made me realize that I do care. It matters to me. _You_ matter to me. So maybe I'd like to get out while I still can, with what's left of my soul."

Susan chuckled. "What, just you and me? We just leave this whole damn mess behind?"

"We're probably not fixing things here," he said. "It might be considered more responsible of us to bail before making things even worse."

"I hadn't really thought of it that way." She stretched out beside him, basking in the warmth of his body, thinking about things for a minute. "I can see it," Susan said. "And I understand why you'd want to get out." She rolled over and kissed him, long and slow. "I'd join you in a heartbeat."

And she would, Susan realized.

Wash her hands of this world, this life. It could be a fresh start, a chance to build something else – something besides the murder and bloodshed and callousness that dominated their lives.

"I sense a 'but' there," Elijah said slowly, holding on to her hand.

"You know what'll happen if we turn on our contracts now."

"We get away from it all and find a quiet corner of the world?"

She smiled sadly at him.

Elijah sighed. "Oh, you mean the part where we get denounced and hunted down for breach of contract."

"We'd never work in _this_ town again," Susan said. "Although, I suppose that is the point of leaving."

She fell silent at that, trying to think things through – to really try to grapple with the implications. What would she be committing to? How well did she know Elijah, really? They'd talked and fought and fit their bodies together in spectacular fashion, but did that truly mean there was something _more_ there? Suppose they got out – what then? She had more than enough to live comfortably, but…

"Would you miss it?" she asked.

"What, the life? The jobs?"

"Maybe not the murder itself, but the thrill, the rush." Susan looked over at him. "I've seen you in a fight. You like it."

"I do," Elijah admitted. "It makes me feel-"

"Alive," she said quietly. "I know. I'm the same way. I'm not sure we'd be cut out for a quiet life."

"I'm pretty sure we're not," he said with a gentle laugh. "On the bright side, being hunted for contract breaches probably means life wouldn't be boring, right?"

"You're not wrong about that." Susan sighed, a pang of wistful thinking lingering in her mind. _If only…_ "You know this will never work out."

"Us?"

"You, me, on the run from who knows how many people looking to collect on our heads?"

"There is an alternative to waiting for them to come to us, you know."

"Going on the offensive?"

He grinned.

"Is that wise? Going out in a blaze of glory is for suckers."

"It's not like we signed onto this gig for the retirement package."

"You may have a point," she admitted. "But at this point I just want to leave it all behind. Disappear, get a fresh start somewhere."

"Open up that pastry shop of yours?"

"Maybe that's just a silly dream," Susan said. "People like us… We never really leave all this, do we? I mean, not even Wick could."

"He stayed out for quite a while," Elijah said.

"Until something pulled him back in."

Elijah stared into space for a moment. "Or he lost something that gave him reason to stay out."

"What do you mean?"

"Look." Elijah scooted a bit closer. "So Wick's at the top of his game, right? Has been for a while. Then he does one last grand job – and just decides to walk away from it all afterwards? I don't buy it. That doesn't make sense for somebody like him."

"So what do you think happened?"

"I think that job was his way out, but not the reason." He shook his head. "That job was a suicide mission for a lone operator. So why'd he take it?"

"A deal," Susan said, as things fell into place in her mind and past speculations aligned.

"Exactly. That job had all the hallmarks of somebody-"

"Viggo. It must have been."

"You know this city better than me. That must have been the deal," Elijah said with a shrug. "If Wick pulls the job off, he gets to leave. Classic gangster boss behavior. So the question remains…"

"What made Wick want to leave in the first place?" Susan leaned back. "I wonder."

"I don't know," Elijah said. "Must have been serious for him to get out." Then they both jumped as his phone trilled and buzzed. He reached over, checked it, and groaned. "I've gotta go. There's a jewelry galleria on Eighty-Ninth. I'd stay away from it today."

"The one that Fabbro uses to launder- Oh. I see." Susan nodded as he climbed out of bed, looking around for his clothes. You know, I think I might try looking into why Wick left."

"You will? Why?"

"I need to know why he made that choice. Especially if it's going to be one I might be making for myself. I just- I can't commit to anything blindly, you know?" She saw the flicker of disappointment on Elijah's face as he got dressed. It hurt more than she expected. "I'm sorry."

"No, don't be," he said. "It's the smart thing to do. This is all really sudden, I know."

"Look, I'm just saying maybe we shouldn't upend our worlds just yet. Maybe there's another way. It might be worth looking into."

"Yeah, that's a good idea."

As Elijah stepped towards the door she climbed out of bed and kissed him. The action felt strangely domestic and she pulled away slightly. "Be careful. Try not to get shot?"

" _That_ ," he said, "is ironic advice coming from the last person who did shoot me."

"Hush," she said, and gave him another kiss on the cheek.

"You be careful too," Elijah said, and then he left.

* * *

Susan headed to the speakeasy earlier than usual that evening, to beat the crowd. She waited on the outskirts, watching until Winston entered and moved to his usual booth. Working her nerve up, Susan went over. Winston's craggy face split into a little smile as she slid into the seat across from him. "Well, well. What can I do for you, Miss Rizzi?"

"Hello, Winston. I'm looking for John Wick."

Winston's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Are you? The contract on him has been canceled for a while now. You've certainly found other employment. Why are you seeking him now?"

"It's not business," Susan said. "It's personal. I'm just looking to talk."

"A talk, you say?" Winston picked up his cocktail glass and examined its translucent contents for a second before taking a sip. "Please, Miss Rizzi, I am aware of the parlance. And believe me; the irony of this situation is not unappreciated."

She stared at him, confused, for a moment, and then shook her head. " _Not_ that kind of talk. A conversation. My word."

"Your word, is it? As a professional?"

Susan swallowed. "As a person. For however little that's worth."

"Really?" Winston's gaze bored into her with the force of rifle round. "How fascinating."

"Word is you were close," she said, forging onward. "You know how to get in touch with him."

Winston's face hardened ever so slightly. "The Continental is not in the habit of disclosing member information."

"I know." Susan sighed, then leaned forwards and clasped her hands on the table. "Then maybe you can tell me why Wick left those years ago."

A glimmer of surprise crossed Winston's face; Susan could count on the fingers of one hand the times she'd seen that. Nothing ever seemed to take him aback. "Well, a personal matter indeed."

"Do you know?" she asked.

The look Winston gave her said it all.

"But you're not going to tell me."

"That sort of knowledge is best imparted through the man who lived it."

"That's why I'm looking for him."

Winston stared into her for another moment. "And why do you want to know this?" He sounded genuinely curious.

Susan hesitated; she'd expected him to ask, but here at the moment – why _did_ it matter so much whether she knew or not? "I want to know what causes somebody to leave this life behind, to get out."

"I expect much of the rest of the world rather asks what possesses us to immerse ourselves in this life to begin with," he said with a wry smile. "So are you considering leaving us, then?"

"I don't know," she admitted, as much to herself as to Winston. "That's why I'm wondering why Wick did what he did."

"Have you considered that the things with drive a person may differ between individuals?"

"The thought had occurred to me. But it's still good to know."

"A considered position. Many of your colleagues could benefit from the same." Winston shifted to match her stance, leaning forward slightly and clasping his hands together. "A cautionary word, Miss Rizzi. John is a man who values his privacy. He is also a man who singlehandedly demolished Viggo Tarasov and his organization. Be wise in your approach."

"So you'll tell me where to find him?"

"I'll consider it." Winston sat back. "In the interim, relax. Have a drink."

"I'll do that. Thank you." Susan stood up from the table.

"Miss Rizzi." Winston looked up, a warm smile on his face. "I will remind you that, should your deliberations lead you away from the more active elements of this life, your membership to the Continental will remain."

Susan nodded once in gratitude; that was generous of Management. She turned away and left Winston to his papers. Crossing over to the bar she sidled up to one of the open spots.

Addy came over a moment later. "Hey, Susan. Saw you talking with Management. Everything all right with your stay?"

"The hotel's been wonderful," Susan said. "Don't worry, it's… other stuff."

"Would that other stuff have anything to do with Mister Tall and Handsome?" Addy gave her a catlike smile. "I've seen you two together."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing. I just haven't seen you quite like that before. Where is he, anyway?"

"Probably working. And don't ask, really. Let's just say it's complicated."

"I've got the answer to that," Addy said, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder towards the rows of bottles. "What'll you have?"

"Surprise me."

"Again?" Addy laughed softly. "Who are you, and what've you done with Susan Rizzi?"

"Like I said, it's complicated."

"Lot of things are. All right. One surprise drink, coming up."

As Addy turned for the bottles Susan turned likewise to view the rest of the space. The Continental speakeasy lacked a certain… _joviality_. Usually the motley collection of killers, smugglers, fixers, and ne'er-do-wells that comprised the clientele relaxed in here in a way that was practically impossible outside. The code and the rules of the Continental kept things civil, and business matters outside. But there was no way to keep everything out. The affairs of the outside world exerted their influence with a certain inevitability, like the moon driving the tides.

And she was partially to blame.

That realization stung more than she cared to admit. The world turned and screwed those it would well enough without needing any participation from her. One person really couldn't make a difference one way or another. But that didn't make the course of the city in the last weeks any more palatable. Or her any less responsible.

Addy returned with a small glass. She slid it towards Susan atop a square napkin. "Cheers."

"So what's this one called?" Susan asked.

"The Wick." Addy winked at her and turned away, breaking down barware with swift, efficient movements.

Susan looked down at the napkin. The paper square had something scrawled on it: an address outside the city. Susan looked up and back, across the speakeasy to where Management sat at his booth. She met Winston's eye and nodded in thanks. He returned the gesture with a fractional tilt of his chin.

Trepidation mixed with excitement in Susan's gut. She'd just been given a rare opportunity – but taking it would mean… she wasn't sure _what_ it might mean. Sliding the napkin away, Susan picked the glass up and gave the Continental a silent toast.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

Parked a distance away, Susan stared at the house through the windshield. Part of it was the fear, but she also had to just admire the house itself. A building of clean angles, elegant white surfaces, and floor to ceiling glass walls, the house felt like it ought to belong to an artist or designer, not the _baba yaga_ of the criminal underworld's coterie of killers.

But appearances could often be deceiving.

Susan rested her head against the steering wheel for a moment. As ideas went this really wasn't one of her better ones. And yet…

She climbed out of the car and started walking towards the house, staying in the open and keeping her hands in sight. The fact that she made it to the front door without getting drilled by a rifle round was probably a good sign. Maybe he preferred closer ranges. Or maybe, she thought as she rang the doorbell and waited, he simply wasn't home. That would make her feel silly.

Then the door opened just a crack, revealing a slender vertical slice of a man's face. "Who are you? What do you want?"

Rizzi knew he must have had a weapon aimed at her from behind the door so she kept her hands by her sides, palms open and forwards. She swallowed once; if this didn't go well…

"My name is Susan Rizzi. I… we share a profession."

The man didn't move, but she _felt_ the sudden change in the air like an electrical charge. "The contract was pulled," he said. "And I'm retired."

"I'm not here about the contract," Susan said. _Good thing, too,_ she thought. "I, uh, actually wanted to talk to you about that retirement."

"Why would I do that?"

"Honestly? I'm not entirely sure. Our mutual friend in hospitality thought it possible enough that he sent me."

"You realize what you're claiming now?" he asked.

"Yes." If she'd been misrepresenting Winston and word got back to him, her membership to the Continental would be… _revoked._

That answer seemed good enough for the man; he pulled the door open. "That's not the kind of conversation for a doorway. Come in."

John Wick looked like the grim reaper made flesh. His face, long and lean, had a skull-like appearance from the cut of his beard. Loose hair framed his head like a cowl. Dark gray shirt and pants reinforced the look. Susan paused; she'd never seen Wick in person before. In a way the most human thing about him was the look of weariness on his face, in the way that only somebody who had been through a physical and emotional gauntlet could have. He stepped aside, opening the way into the house – and lowered the pistol in his hand so it wasn't pointing at her. Neither was it pointed entirely away from her, so Susan kept her hands in the open as she stepped in.

Wick directed her to the living room with a nod. The inside of the house matched the exterior: elegant and artistic. The place didn't feel like a safe house or a crash joint. It felt like a _home_ – a place where life in its myriad joys and sorrows and triumphs and tragedies occurred. A place that had no part in their world.

Except it had intruded into this place, Susan felt. Somebody had attacked this home recently, judging by the fresh patches in some of the walls awaiting further repainting. The fate of the assailants was no mystery: Wick was here, they were not. They stopped in the living room, before some couches and a low table. The floor to ceiling glass wall offered a truly spectacular view of the woods next to the place.

"I'll disarm," Susan offered.

Wick gave a noncommittal grunt, the kind that said it wouldn't matter one way or another if she tried anything.

Moving slowly, she pulled her pistol from its holster and set it down gently on the table. Her backup piece followed as did her knives. Wick nodded at one of the couches and she took a seat.

"Can I get you a drink or anything?" he asked.

Susan almost burst into laughter at that; this entire situation was so damned ridiculous. Here was the legendary killer playing host with her. "No, thank you."

Wick nodded again and sat down on the other couch. He moved with a certain care, almost gingerly, like somebody recovering from injuries. Before either of them could say anything a rhythmic patter of paws heralded the arrival of a black bulldog rushing into the living room. It ran over, leapt onto the couch by Susan's side, and sprawled down next to her. The dog dropped its head into her lap as its stubby tail beat a staccato against the couch.

"Oh, look at you!" Susan rubbed the dog's ears and chin while it waved its legs happily in the air. She patted its belly – and then remembered where she was. Clearing her throat, she snuck one more quick chin rub in and looked back up.

John Wick regarded the scene with a mix of exasperation and amusement on his face. The dog swung its head back towards him, panting cheerfully. "So, why are you here?" Wick asked.

Flippant answers ran through her head. She discarded them all: she felt a deep certainty that anything besides genuine honesty here would result in her corpse getting bundled away by Charlie's cleaners. "It's about your retirement – well, whatever it was before you took Tarasov out."

"That was personal." Wick tossed the statement out like it was a reflex.

"You got out once," Susan said.

He nodded.

"What made you leave?"

Wick said nothing for a minute. Then, "Why do you want to know?"

"You were at the top of the game," said Susan. "Why leave then?"

"Is there a better time to get out?"

"What do you mean?"

"The other option is to try to get out when you can't keep up with the job anymore."

"And that's an admission of weakness," she concluded. "So what made you _choose_ to get out?"

"You still haven't explained why any of this matters to you," Wick said.

"Because-" Susan swallowed hard; saying the words made them feel _real_ in a way they hadn't before. "Because I'm wondering if I'm facing a similar choice."

Another moment of silence passed while Wick stared at her. "Are you serious?" He didn't sound sarcastic. He sounded like a judge awaiting a jury's verdict.

"Yes." Her voice came out as a thick whisper.

Wick sighed and looked even wearier than before. "Her name was Helen."

"Her-" Susan paused, frowned. And then like a reassembled gun things clicked into place. The place outside the city, the home and its quiet, idyllic atmosphere. "Your wife?"

"Yeah." Wick nodded. The underlying grief in his voice came through the single word.

Susan tilted her head slightly. "What happened?" she said softly.

"She's gone." The dog in her lap snuffled and looked and looked at Wick, then bounded off the couch and padded over to lean against his leg. He reached one hand down to rub its head. The other still held his pistol, steady as a vice.

"I'm sorry." And to her mild surprise Susan realized that was actually true; Wick looked like a man who had lost everything and was now adrift. That depth of sorrow, of loss… "You left it all to be with her, didn't you?"

"Helen saved me," said Wick.

"From what?"

"From myself." Wick shook his head. "The things I've done… she pulled me away from someplace where I would have been truly lost."

"But she's gone now," Susan said. "Was-" She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. "Was it worth it? You weren't out for all that long. It seems… so short a time."

"Too short," he said. Wick sighed after another moment, his thoughts evidently elsewhere. "Somebody told me recently that this life clings to us. That we're cursed."

"Do you think that's true?" Susan asked quietly.

"It's hard to conclude otherwise when Helen's gone and I'm still here."

Susan nodded silently.

"Was it worth it?" Wick seemed to contemplate the question. "Yes."

"What makes you say that?"

Wick's gaze grew paradoxically harder and softer at the same time, a mixture of pity and sadness. "Have you ever loved and been loved in return?"

"I…" Susan paused. Was that what it was? That ember in her heart when she was with Elijah? That unfamiliar sense of _belonging_? "I'm not sure."

"If you had," said Wick, "you wouldn't need someone to explain it to you."

"Maybe I don't." She saw that flicker in his eyes, and felt a sudden discomfort at how Wick seemed to understand what was going on within her.

And maybe he did, she realized. Maybe, just maybe, he'd already trodden the path she might have started walking.

And yet… "She's still gone," Susan said, as much to herself as to John Wick.

"She is," the other killer said. "And there was nothing I could do about it." She heard the quiet pain in his voice, the near-guilt, and it felt like she was intruding on a private moment.

Susan stood and cleared her throat. "Thanks for, uh, I mean, thank you. I won't take any more of your time."

She rearmed under Wick's razor-sharp gaze, moving as slowly and carefully as she had when she'd entered. Even more so, really. Wick had revealed another side of himself: a human, hurting side. And that made him all the more terrifying, that the same man could execute everybody who crossed him and speak so tenderly of somebody he'd loved.

But then, was she really so different?

Wick saw her to the door, once again that unnervingly polite host. She'd just stepped out of the doorway when he said, "Rizzi."

She turned.

"Nothing in this life lasts forever. If you have the chance, even just for a little while… it's worth it."

"Maybe it is," she said. "Thank you."

John Wick nodded and closed the door gently. Susan started walking toward her car, her mind and emotions working furiously as she contemplated what Wick had shared.

* * *

Several minutes later, sitting in the car with her coat wrapped around herself, Susan released a slow breath. She stared at Wick's house for another moment, a part of her mind still just appreciating the design, another part in turmoil over the choices facing her.

 _It's worth it_ , Wick had said. Was it, though? The man had seemed almost… broken, in a way. Like he was in mourning – which to be fair seemed true enough. She scrubbed a hand over her face, then pulled out her phone.

Elijah picked up after several moments. "This isn't a great time," he said quietly.

"We should talk," said Susan. "Can you meet me?"

"At the moment? That would be all kinds of inconvenient."

"Later. At the hotel."

"Yeah. When? Where are you?"

Susan chuckled. "Would you believe I'm at Wick's house?"

"You're _where?_ " She heard muted conversation in the background and Elijah said something in Chinese, presumably to whomever else was with him. A moment later his voice returned, a little more hushed and a little more incredulous. "How did- What are you doing?"

"Looking into things," Susan said. "Like I said, we should talk. The hotel. I'll be there in-" She made some mental calculations of the distance. "Two hours?"

"I can make that work," he said.

"Okay. I'll meet you back at the Continental." She paused, many things unsaid between them. _Later_ , Susan told herself, and disconnected. Giving Wick's house one last glance, Susan started the car engine and pulled away.

* * *

The journey through the subway reinforced Elijah's sensation of being boxed in.

"You seem distracted lately," Xiao Ma had said to him earlier that day. "Eighth Tiger has noticed as well. Is there something happening we should be aware of?"

Elijah had kept his face still. "I'm considering a change," he'd said.

"A change? How vague."

"I'm thinking of washing my hands in the golden basin."

She had paused, one finger poised over the screen of her tablet as she stared at him. That phrase carried a certain meaning in the Chinese _Jianghu_ : a symbolic act that meant the person in question left behind the underworld, retired from its currents and affairs.

Xiao Ma had stepped close, seized him by the arm, and practically dragged him along through the partly-finished building that Tiger Shun was currently using to run things from. To her credit, she skipped the expected blandishments of surprise and disbelief. "Is it a matter of payment?" she'd asked once they were alone in a metal-ribbed hall. "Do you find your compensation insufficient?"

"It's not that."

"Then why?"

He'd thought – for a moment – about sharing what he had with Susan, about waking up to the price they paid with each press of the trigger, each blade sliding home. And he knew that Xiao Ma would laugh in his face – and probably order him shot on the spot. "I have my reasons."

"That is an insufficient answer," she'd said.

"It's personal."

Xiao Ma had rolled her eyes. "If that is the best justification you can give Eighth Tiger, I suggest you not bring this foolishness up before him."

She'd walked away as if that was that, leaving him alone in the barren hallway with his thoughts.

Foolishness.

That's what it all was in the harsh light of day – sweet-sounding dreams that came from being enamored. What were the two of them going to do? Run off and paint bullseyes on their backs for the rest of their lives? Idiotic bravado came easily when you were naked in bed with an attractive woman. Reality was good at giving it a splash of cold water.

Besides, it wasn't like Susan had agreed. They'd made no plans; they didn't owe each other anything.

Right?

 _Is that how you want to play it with her?_ That didn't feel right. Why not? Years of keeping his distance from all those around him – what made _her_ different? They didn't know each other that well. Surely not enough to warrant throwing their lives away. Because that's what it would be if they went through with this.

Or maybe he was a coward, shying away from a chance for something else. A chance for another life, maybe. Elijah glanced around the subway car again, at the crowds of people staring down into various handheld devices. He still hadn't made up his mind one way or another by the time his stop came up.

He pulled his phone out and dialed Susan's phone. "I'm almost at the hotel," he said once she'd picked up.

"I'll be there in a bit," she said. "There's always traffic."

"I'll meet you in the lobby," Elijah said, and realized that hearing her voice had brought a smile to his face.

* * *

Pulling into an available parking space a block away from the Continental, Rizzi climbed out of the car. She shut the door with a thump and headed up the street towards the tall, oblong hotel. The chilly air filled her lungs with a new vigor. That might have been the reason for the lightness in her chest.

The gates at the head of the stairs slid open as she crossed the street; Elijah stood just inside.

Okay, maybe not _the_ reason.

* * *

He felt another smile stretch across his face as Susan crossed the street. A flicker of movement from the corner of his eye caught Elijah's attention; he flicked his gaze over to see an unmarked van a little bit further up the street pull away from the curb and barrel towards Susan.

The side doors flung open as it pulled up behind her.

* * *

Susan had just enough time to pause in disbelief as Elijah drew his pistol. _He wouldn't-_

An arm wrapped around her neck suddenly with crushing force. Reflexively she threw an elbow back and heard a grunt in her ear as she turned her head and tucked her chin down. The grip around her shifted to hold her face aside as a pinching bite stung the side of her neck. A cold shock jolted Rizzi's system as something flooded her bloodstream. She caught one more glance of Wu charging down several steps, levelling his weapon, as the world tilted backwards and the city disappeared into the dark innards of a vehicle. Grunts and curses filled the space while she thrashed and fought, but with each second her limbs-

Grew-

Heavier-

And everything went black.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

He ran down the street, pursuing the van as it powered away from the Continental. Arms pumping hard, Wu chased until it sped around the corner at the end of the block and left his sight. He couldn't catch up to a vehicle at speed – and people on the street were starting to pay attention to the scene. He holstered his pistol quickly and returned to Continental, moving as swiftly as he could without drawing further attention.

The bellhop shot him a look, half-glare and half-pity as he stepped aside while the gates slid open. A trio of gun muzzles greeted him: two pistols and a little snub-nosed P90, held by two stony-faced men and a woman dressed in sharp suits. Wu raised his hands and kept his palms facing forward. "Have I violated the Continental's rules?" he said.

"You drew a weapon on the premises," said the woman, her eyes like matte steel. "Management frowns on that."

"That's not a direct breach," Wu replied. "Not without using it. You can check my weapon."

"No need." She lowered the P90 and the others stowed their guns. "We saw what happened. Just don't let it happen again."

They moved aside, letting him pass into the lobby. Wu paced back and forth, his heart and mind racing. They'd taken her – _who?_ It wasn't Silver Mountain, he felt reasonably confident. If they'd had such a good read on Rizzi's location they would have dispatched him to deal with her. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and replayed the scene in his mind.

Susan's face. The little curve at the corner of her lips as she crossed the street towards him. The van, beige and unmarked, nothing that would stand out in the city streets. Dark windows. The doors opening as it pulled up behind her. The man who'd leapt out and grabbed her from behind.

He halted. That face. He'd seen it before. When? Not a freelancer. He'd seen the man…

The first time he'd seen Rizzi, actually. At Viggo Tarasov's burned-out safehouse, in the melee that had touched off this whole God-forsaken feud between Fabbro and the Silver Mountain. He was one of Fabbro's men.

 _Oh. Not good._

It must have been because of _them._ Why else would they snatch her off the street like that?

He returned to his room, cursing the elevator's slowness as it climbed the shaft. Once back inside he scrambled for his weapons cases, laying out his carbine, spare pistols, magazines, blades – and paused. _This is a way out,_ a part of his mind said. _You're rumbled. Pack up and get out of town._

He could leave it all behind. Just bug out, head back to the West Coast. _It's not like you promised each other anything_ , said that poisonously analytical chunk of his mind. _Cut your losses._ _That's what's kept you alive all this time._

Wu started packing. Clothes and toiletries, into their respective bags. He laid them out on his bed, beside his weapons. Elijah picked up his X95, reached up to strip its magazine and clear it. His hand paused halfway there; he realized it was trembling. Both his hands were. When was the last time he'd reacted like this? He sat down on the edge of the bed, set the carbine aside, and buried his head in his hands.

"What are you doing?"

Running now would be the smart thing.

Elijah picked the carbine up, checked its magazine. Checked the spares, then his pistol mags.

 _What are you doing?_

He headed for the door at a near-sprint, made his way to the front desk in record time, and drew up to a halt before the inscrutable concierge. "I need to see Management," he said. "It's urgent."

* * *

Charon led him to the back, through a hall to an office that spoke quietly of its owner: a small square room appointed with several classical paintings and flat, elegant color tones along one wall. The opposite wall was lined with dark wood cabinets and drawers, and the wall which faced the door stood hidden behind shelves laden with well-used books.

An oval desk stood in the center of the room, covered with papers, documents, and stationary – all arranged neatly. A row of pens stacked in a tiered wood stand lay next to an offset monitor. High-backed leather chairs, a pair of them, sat on the side facing the door, while Management sat on the other side. The concierge reached in and knocked on the open door. "A guest to see you, sir. He insists the matter is-"

"Urgent." The man looked away from the monitor to the doorway. "Come in. Be seated." He looked to Charon and nodded. "Thank you."

Charon walked away silently as Wu stepped into the office.

Nobody knew if Winston actually owned the Continental himself or if he was just some highly placed representative, or even a decoy for the real power. Idle speculation was a popular enough subject among the hitters of their world, but what was indisputable was Winston's knowledge of the shadow world. Elijah took a closer look as he slid into the seat opposite the face of Management. Winston's gray-streaked hair and age lines in his craggy face testified to the combination of intelligence and ruthlessness he must possess to thrive in such a cutthroat world for so long.

He returned Elijah's look with one of quiet appraisal. "It's Mister Wu, isn't it? What can I do for a guest of the Continental?" The affable tone of his question hid a reminder of the hotel's policies of neutrality and sanctuary.

"I need to know where Marco Fabbro takes his prisoners," Elijah said.

"And what makes you think I'd tell you something like that? Please, Mister Wu, I am not unaware of your contracts."

A knot of desperation wormed its way through his gut. If Winston refused to help him here… "This prisoner is a guest of the Continental."

"Miss Rizzi was not in the Continental at the time of the incident." The gleam in Winston's eyes might have been the light in his spectacles – or something else.

"She was grabbed on the sidewalk outside," said Elijah. "Isn't that still Continental premises? Your valets are out there, after all.'

"A technicality, Mister Wu, and a rather thin one at that."

"But a technicality nonetheless." Elijah felt a glimmer of hope at the shadow of approval on Management's craggy face; the Continental hadn't been happy about Fabbro's actions either.

Winston grunted noncommittally. "On occasion, the letter of the law and the spirit of the law find themselves in alignment. Still…" He reached up and removed his glasses, fixing Elijah with a quietly piercing stare. "Let us flip our cards face-up and take stock of the table. You work for the Silver Mountain. Miss Rizzi – up until extremely recently, it appears – worked for Mister Fabbro. By all accounts, the two of you should be attempting to arrange dinner reservations for one another. Why would you concern yourself with an internal dispute that should be of benefit to your employer?"

"It's personal."

Winston gave him a little half-grimace. "The last man who told me that plunged this city into the chaos it currently endures. The last woman got herself nabbed off the street outside this establishment. I'm afraid you'll have to do better than that."

Elijah leaned back. That was a fair question. Why _was_ he doing this? Winston was right: if Fabbro took Susan out of the picture, it would only benefit Tiger Shen and the Silver Mountain. She'd already taken out enough Silver Mountain members to earn a permanent oath of vengeance. Rizzi was dangerous.

But he hadn't felt this kind of bond with somebody since… ever. The force of Winston's stare didn't abate; the man appeared content to wait however long it took to get an answer. Elijah exhaled and met his gaze. "She's important to me."

That was all he _could_ say, he realized. Was there anything else between them – or even the potential of it? They hadn't known each other for all that long. They had conflicting loyalties, and-

"It's rare to form connections in this life." Winston's statement drew Elijah from his thoughts. The older man nodded. "And even rarer to keep them. I wonder: how far would you go to keep it? Do you even know?"

"I-" Elijah paused. "I love her."

There. He'd said it. It had just slipped out in the moment, but now that he'd actually admitted it, made the statement, it felt… _good_. Like finding his balance again in the middle of a long, hard duel. Like having a direction.

 _I love her._

There came a curious freedom in that admission, something he'd never felt before. But this wasn't the time to dwell on it.

Winston drew out a cream-colored stationary sheet from a desk drawer. "Shall we find out what distances you're willing to travel, then?" He brought forth a black and gold pen, uncapping it with a twist to reveal a fountain pen nib. The motion made Wu think of a man flicking the safety of a rifle. With swift, elegant strokes he wrote out an address, then held the sheet out towards the assassin. "Understand that as the Continental views it, the scales are hereby balanced. A small transgression draws a correspondingly small response."

Elijah took it, read it over. The ink, he noticed, was a deep red almost the shade of spilled blood. He doubted that was an accident. "Thank you."

"That may be premature," said Winston. "I would say let's wait and see if you come out that other side alive, but that's not quite what you're doing this for, is it? Rather, let us see if you come out the other side… _whole._ Good luck, Mister Wu."

And with that Winston went back to the spread of papers on his desk. Elijah stood; the meeting was over and the Continental had just given him the best chance he could have asked for. He slipped from the office and hurried back to the lobby.

The unflappable Charon stood at the front desk like he'd never been elsewhere. He eyed Elijah as he approached. "I trust your discussion with Management was satisfactory?"

Elijah gave a half-nod and slid a gold coin across the surface. "I need to do some re-decorating."

"Of course, sir. Will you require full service?"

"Just the supplies?"

"Very good." Charon swiped the coin away and slid a gray card toward him. "Your membership to the Continental entitles you to certain discounts. Present this card to the vendor."

"Thanks."

Elijah palmed the card and turned away. He'd only taken a step when Charon cleared his throat. "If I may be so bold – am I correct in surmising you intend to seek out Miss Rizzi?"

He hesitated, then looked back over his shoulder and nodded.

Charon returned the nod. "Good hunting."

* * *

She came to slowly, with a cold spike of pain running through her head and a dry, fuzzy sensation in her mouth. A dull throb echoed through both shoulders; her hands were bound together behind her back, braced around a stiff-backed chair. Rizzi rolled her wrists slightly: metal bit into her skin. Handcuffs, then. The hard spine of the chair pressed against her back.

Rizzi tried to gather her thoughts. Her mind felt like a rifle scope out of focus – everything blurry and hazy except for the lines of the crosshairs. _What's my crosshair here?_ Two things she knew: someone had grabbed her and she was still alive. Not much to go on, but at least it was something.

The spike in her head receded bit by bit while her eyes stayed resolutely shut despite her efforts. Rizzi listened, trying to hear past her own slow breathing. Someone shifting and pacing behind her. Maybe a little more than a meter, not quite two. And there in front of her – tapping. Soft and rhythmic. Familiar. Where did she know that from?

A bubble erupted in her chest and forced its way up her throat in a rasping cough. That triggered a fit of coughs that rattled her torso but cleared her dry mouth. By the time the fit subsided she finally had the strength to crack open her eyes.

Immediately she wished she hadn't. A harsh white light blasted her pupils with the force of its glare. Rizzi winced and narrowed her eyes until they adjusted. Metal walls surrounded her. The light came from hard construction floodlamps mounted on tripod poles.

Marco Fabbro stood in front of her like a judge awaiting a verdict. That tapping came from him, from the fingernails of one hand drumming against the pin on his breast.

"Rizzi, Rizzi, Rizzi," he said. "I think we should talk, huh?"


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

 _Not good._

Susan lifted her head as Fabbro stepped closer. His footsteps made the ground rustle: she realized the floor had been covered with thick industrial plastic sheets – the perfect sort to contain blood splatter and bundle up corpses with. She glanced around: beneath the plastic draping the room looked like a decrepit surgery chamber, like one of the old hospitals that occasionally slipped through city planning – no doubt helped by greased palms. "What the hell is this?" she said.

"A talk," said Fabbro, still fiddling with his pin.

"You could have just called me in." Susan kept her face still, her expression guarded. _Don't give away anything you don't have to._

"About that," Fabbro said. He motioned to a position before her. 'Jonesy' Tony came around behind her, carrying a steel chair that looked worn and scuffed from repeated scrubbings. He set it down facing her and circled back around behind her as Fabbro sat and sighed. "It's hard to know who to trust these days, huh?"

"What do you mean?" Rizzi shifted in the chair, feeling for the way her equipment rubbed against her body – or in this case, how it didn't. Not terribly surprising: they'd taken her pistol and knives.

Fabbro sighed again. "Well, there goes your chance to come clean, huh?" He reached into a pocket and drew out his phone. "You know, I never liked the timing of Julius' death. It was just too close for you not to have seen anything at all. So I talked to the Eye, had them take a closer look. And what do you imagine they found?"

Susan said nothing. She sensed the jaws of the trap snapping shut.

Fabbro turned the phone screen to her, displaying the photograph on it. It was a picture of a Continental room, taken from a distance with some kind of magnified lens, the frame of the window blurred and out of focus. In focus were the two figures entwined on the bed. She took a second to admire the skill of whomever was taking surveillance photos for the Eye: the picture clearly showed her and Elijah's faces, with little room for error. Fabbro swiped through several other photos in silence. They all showed the two of them in the Continental room, in various stages of undress, conversation, and intercourse.

 _So much for keeping it subtle_ , she thought.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"Would it change anything if I did?" she said.

"It might have," Fabbro said. He stood up from the chair and walked towards the side, where a table – covered with another heavy plastic sheet – waited with an array of tools in neat rows. She saw a claw hammer, a saw, a box of nails, pliers, and wrenches. "But… you know how this business works, huh?"

"Yeah."

He paused halfway to the table. "What, no begging? No pleas for mercy?" Fabbro shrugged. "I'm impressed, doll."

"Like you said, I know how this works."

"And you've been on the other side of this situation, huh?"

"I just kill people, Marco. I don't torture them."

Fabbro's face twisted into a sneer. "And that makes you better, does it? You think I don't see it in your eyes? Looking down your nose at others? The way you think you're different because you got a membership to some fancy hitman hotel and you're supposed to have some 'code' you run by? You're better, is that it?"

Susan looked coolly back at him. "No," she said after a moment. "It means when I kill you, I'll make it quick."

Fabbro burst into loud, ugly laughter at that. He looked at Tony, still standing behind her. "She's got some stones, huh?"

He strolled to the table and ran a hand over the gathered tools – then paused halfway across. Fabbro snapped his fingers at the thick door and Tony hurried over, unlocking it with a clank and tugging it open. Another man poked his head in and looked to Fabbro. "What's up, boss?"

"What the fuck is this?" Fabbro asked, waving a hand at the table. "Where's the soldering iron?"

"It's not there?"

"No, Albert, it's not here."

"Sorry, boss. It must have been in the other car."

Fabbro snapped his fingers at him. "Well go get it then! Proper tools for the proper torture session! How many times have I told you guys?"

"Right, sir." Albert vanished back through the portal and the door shut with a clang.

"I tell you, it's hard to find good help these days," Fabbro said with a chuckle. "Which makes it even more of a shame about you, doll. You were good at what you do. We had a mutually beneficial arrangement, huh? What'd you go and throw all that away for, huh? Cause you were bored and horny? Why the hell didn't you just spread 'em for Tony here, then? Or Julius? Hell, let 'em run a train on you if you've got that big an itch to scratch!"

Susan said nothing, just stared impassively straight ahead.

Fabbro came back over and sat down. "Oh, Julius. I wonder if it's really my fault, what happened to him. If I hadn't brought him over, he'd still be alive."

"Someone would have offed him sooner or later."

"You be careful of your words, now."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, Fabbro, but Tracitus was an ass."

Fabbro chuckled. "Yeah, he really was." He glanced over at Tony with another chuckle, then surged out of his seat and smacked her across the face with a backhand blow that stung her cheek. "He was also my blood! My family!"

 _Good one, Susan,_ Rizzi told herself. _Antagonize the mob boss who's already planning to kill you. Give him an excuse to live up to the Blacksmith nickname._ A part of her mind said, _stall._ Another part responded with, _why?_ _Stall for what?_ A few more minutes or hours of life – or what passed for it? What was the point?

Hope somebody would come for her? Who – Elijah? He wouldn't know where they were. And – a cold, bitter part of her heart told her – _he wouldn't._ The calculation of it didn't make sense. He wasn't getting paid to save her. He was _supposed_ to be getting paid to kill her. In a perversely ironic sense, Fabbro had solved their conundrum for them by snatching her off the street and disposing of her.

Elijah would be free to go about his business – he would be free of _her._

Once, she would have been bitter and resentful about that. Instead she felt a sense of relief that he wasn't in this position. _What the hell is this?_

Fabbro stared down at her. "Finally got something you'd like to share, huh?"

Susan realized she'd started laughing quietly. So that was it. All of their dancing around, the inability to come out and say things clearly. Maybe they were hilariously inept at sane, functional relationships. Maybe they were both souls too shredded by their deeds to acknowledge anything else. Maybe they just had bad fucking timing.

 _I love you,_ she thought. Crazy and rushed and impulsive and poorly considered as it was, she felt a sense of peace at that self-admission. _Definitely some bad timing._

"It's funny," Susan said, "the things we realize when we're going to die."

"You're not wrong about that last part," Fabbro said as the door opened again. The man from earlier came in bearing a box of tools. Another followed and tugged the door shut behind him, standing at the entrance while the first set the tools down on the table. "But you should know, when I kill you, it's not going to be quick."

He picked up a stubby knife from the table and strolled over to her, then ran the back of its blade down her cheek. "However, we won't get to that part right away." A pair of hands wrapped around her neck as 'Jonesy' Tony seized her from behind and held her in place as Fabbro cut partway through the collar of her shirt, the tip of the blade just barely teasing her skin. "Since it seems you'll put out for just about anybody, you'll get to entertain my boys first."

Fabbro backhanded her again, snapping her head to the side. Susan worked her jaw. "Don't worry," he said, "I'm not going to hit you too hard – yet. I got lots more guys here. Wouldn't want to spoil it for them, huh? But after they've had their fun? I will take a soldering iron to your nipples. And then, we'll _really_ get started. And you'll see why they call me the Blacksmith."

* * *

The place was, unsurprisingly but also thankfully, out of the way. Torturing people to death probably posed too many _inconveniences_ when done in the midst of a major metropolitan zone. Elijah panned the spotter's scope over the building from a ways out. He'd parked out of sight, humped his gear in, and now tried to get some kind of intel. This place, situated more on the outskirts, looked like it had been built near the beginning of the previous century – and remained there. An old hospital, from what he could see. The squat, blocky building had been built from a mixture of stone and brick, all of it now drab and faded. The surrounding streets had been practically empty, except for several abandoned, rusted hulks of old cars.

In contrast, the quartet of SUVs parked by what he assumed might have been the dock for ambulances once looked new – modern and out of place. The van that had nabbed Susan sat next to those. Not great odds, unless each of those cars had been occupied by the one driver. _Sure. When have you ever gotten that lucky_ , Elijah thought. _You_ did _meet Susan._ Alright, he had that much at least. Still, the car capacities put him at a potential sixteen to one, which- He took a closer look at the SUVs and muttered a curse. Bulky, blocky, and extended cabin frames – they were made to carry extra passengers. No reason to be driving those unless you were carting more people around. Now those were _really_ bad odds.

Suicidally so.

Winston's question came back to him. How far will you go?

* * *

"I'm surprised you have the guts to do it yourself," Susan said. "You motherless coward."

"Me?" Fabbro pressed the fingertips of both hands against his chest. "Now that's rich talk, coming from the woman who's FUCKING THE SCUM THAT KILLED MY KINSMAN!"

He stormed towards her and threw another blow, this time hard enough that it knocked her and the chair over to one side. She landed with a thud that jarred her breath. Fabbro looked down at her for a moment, rage dancing in his eyes. Then he shook his head and smirked. "I know what you're trying to do, doll. You won't get off so easily." He looked over at Tony and jerked his chin in her direction. "Pick her up.'

Tony righted the chair and hauled Susan back into it, making no effort to conceal the way he pawed at her body as he did so.

 _Perfect._

Susan kept her face impassive, burying her satisfaction deep. Fabbro and Tony had done just as she'd hoped: displacing her from the chair. Tony hadn't wrapped her arms around the chair spine when he'd reseated her. Her hands were still cuffed behind her back, but her captors had just (back)handed a degree of motion to her. Now she could rise from the seat.

"You didn't even like Tracitus that much," she said. "Him getting gunned down in a sex club isn't exactly the jagged spike up your ass, is it?"

"Now, there's an idea," said Fabbro, wandering over to the table. He hefted a power drill with a monstrously large bit and spun it up for a second. Even his men at the door looked uncomfortable at that. "Keep talking, doll. It'll just make the screams later all the sweeter." Fabbro set the drill down and took a step towards her. "What? No comeback? No self-righteous justification about how this hired killer is different because you claim to have a code? Because you don't like collateral damage? News flash, doll. Collateral damage is what you do. It's who you are. You're not different – you're just in denial."

"We're airing petty grievances now? In that case, you need to fire your interior decorator." Susan tossed the verbal riposte off, but carried no edge to her ear compared to Fabbro's tirade. Well. That one actually stung. He _was_ right. A part of her had always known that truth about her life. She'd just never cared – or had told herself she didn't. But now… she'd found a reason to care. Elijah had told her that she made him want to be better, to be more than a killer for the highest bidder. She wished she'd been brave enough to tell him that she felt the same way about him. Only, she hadn't quite realized it then.

 _You picked a hell of a time for self-reflection, Susan._

She started laughing again, a low chuckle from the depth of her gut. Of course she'd start figuring things out now that she was going to die.

"I can almost admire that about you," Fabbro said. "Not many in your position now would be laughing."

"It's just some bad timing," said Susan. "Also, the fact that Wu and I wouldn't have met without your ambitions. I suppose I should be grateful to you for that."

"Grateful? Bitch, I gave you one hell of an exclusive contract!" Fabbro shouted. "Every chance! And then I find that not only are you not fulfilling the contract, you're fucking the target! You got an explanation? Cause I'm _dying_ to hear it!"

Rizzi kept silent.

"Nothing, huh? Well, sweetheart, I hope he was worth it, cause I'm gonna do some _nasty_ shit to you." He leaned in, his breath warm and moist against her face. "You broke the contract. And you know what, that happens, I get it. No hard feelings, huh? But you betrayed _me._ You betrayed my trust. You made me look like a fool." Fabbro seized the underside of her jaw in a vicelike grip. "Now that results in some hard feelings!"

Rizzi stared back into his eyes; she'd seen Fabbro angry before, but this was on a different level. The manic intensity in them felt stronger than a shotgun slug. He released her chin, circled the seat, and shook his head. "I don't know if I'm impressed or disappointed," he said. "Everybody else who's been in your position was squealing like a fuckin' pig!" He slapped her with an open hand, rocking her head to the side again. Fabbro blew out a low breath. "Still nothing, huh? Well don't worry, we'll get something out that pretty little mouth soon enough."

"You really want me to talk?" Susan rolled her eyes. "Fine."

"At last! Reason!" Fabbro glanced over at the guards, spreading his hands. "And what do you have to say for yourself?"

She looked up. "I'd say it was worth it, but you wouldn't understand."

"Worth it?" Fabbro laughed. "Doll, no lay is that good."

"Not the sex." She tilted her head momentarily. "Although it _was_ pretty spectacular."

Fabbro chuckled, and then slapped her again. "You got some nerve, I'll give you that." He looked at Tony. "Bold as brass, this one, huh?"

"That'll change soon enough," said Tony.

"Yeah." Fabbro turned back to her, placing a hand on each of her thighs. "So. Exactly what was worth it, huh?" He drew one hand back, balled it up into a fist, and-

The crack of a gunshot came from somewhere outside. Fabbro looked up, his eyes widening. Two more shots sounded in rapid succession. "The fuck… Get out there!" he shouted. "Find out what's happening!"

The two men disappeared through the door while Fabbro paced. Rounding on Susan he snarled. "Don't look at me," she said, shrugging as best she could. "Your men took precautions, right?"

"Shut up!"

"Oh, now you don't want me to talk?"

She eyed Fabbro as he closed in, judging the distance. He raised a hand again – and she lunged up into a headbutt. She fell short, stumbling up against him before sliding down into a heap at his feet.

Fabbro sneered down at her. "You're pathetic, Rizzi. Look at yourself. I'm-"

Furious gunfire sounded again from outside, closer than before. Multiple guns: one hell of a firefight was happening somewhere in the building. One of the guards thumped the door open and stuck his head in. "Sir, you should evacuate. Someone's gotten through outer security. Took out Arnie real quiet. Ray says it's the guy with the sword."

Another burst of gunfire echoed down the hall, much louder with the door open. "Does that sound like a sword to you?" Fabbro said, paler than Rizzi had ever seen. He flinched at the continuing cracks.

"Sir, you should leave."

"Yeah, yeah." Fabbro glanced around wildly, then settled his gaze on Rizzi before glancing up at Tony. "Kill her, make it slow." Then he ran from the room, the other two following him.

* * *

Entering through a second story window, Elijah unlimbered the firearm slung over his shoulder and brought it up. He smiled momentarily despite the situation; Susan would probably shake her head at him. She'd certainly been antithetical enough towards it at the Bazaar, when the merchant had tried to sell her on it. The Origin-12 was indeed heavy and bulky, but a semi-automatic shotgun with detachable magazines felt like a solid choice for storming a building by himself. He'd gone back and purchased it after they'd met each other that day at the Bazaar, intending to present it to Susan at some point as a joke.

Looked like there was a better use for it now.

Broken glass and crumbled masonry crunched underfoot as he moved through the room he'd entered into. It had been some kind of ward or recovery room, judging by the rusted bedframes along one wall. He swept both sides of the hallway outside, then picked one direction and kept moving. This was… well, this was _stupid._ He had no intel, no idea where they were keeping Susan in this place. He was already on a timer – he'd needed to put down one of the guards while rigging up the cars, and sooner or later the whole damn thing would go loud.

 _Up or down?_ Wu thought about it for a moment, trying to distance himself from the emotional implications. Whatever Fabbro did here, he'd obviously try to keep quiet. Dragging bodies up and down stories was inconvenient. And clandestine murder sites were, after all, supposed to be _clandestine_. If they had to depend on not having somebody stumble upon them in the middle of the act, something had already gone drastically wrong. _Down it is._

Now to find a staircase. He prowled the dark corridors of the second floor. The only light came from the dirty windows in the rooms, filling the place with shadows as the sun started to set and the temperature crept downwards. It took Elijah a little while to locate a staircase. He swept downwards, listening for any sign of activity. No screaming, which… he didn't know if that was good or not.

The first floor had been noticeably better maintained than the second. Less glass and rubble, working lights – which pointed towards it being the right choice. It had that _feel_ of being inhabited. He exited the stairwell and crossed over to the far side of the hallway, hearing chatter from further within. Elijah ducked into one of the side rooms as the flicker of shadows ahead alerted him to somebody approaching.

"Yeah, I heard," came a man's voice. "Look, it doesn't matter. We'll all get a turn. Just don't wander off your post again. Call me when it's time. Before he finishes chopping her up into little bits, okay? Couldn't get it up last time."

Footsteps heralded the man's approach. Elijah waited crouched beneath a broken window as Fabbro's man passed. He set the Origin-12 down silently – then popped up, seized the other man, and dragged him through the opening. Slamming the man down, Elijah drew his sword in a reverse grip and stabbed down with a brutal thrust. The blade punched through his victim's eye with a wet crunch – and a sudden loud bang.

Elijah cursed as the gunshot echoed. What kind of idiot walked around with his finger on the trigger? He scrambled up, kicked the corpse aside, and picked his shotgun up as shouts came from further within the building. Backtracking away from the voices, he moved for the shadows beyond the door to the hall.

A man in winter wear came prowling through the other end of the hall, pistol raised as he looked around. Elijah shifted the Origin-12 over a fraction, settling the red dot of its optic over his chest. A second man followed the first, the both of them heading towards him. He opened fire, putting a load of buckshot into the first man, shifted his aim, and dropped the second.

Elijah burst into a run, sprinting past the downed men. The second one stirred towards him as he passed and Elijah put another shot through his head at point blank range, making a mess. Elijah didn't even register it as he ran on. The whole damn thing was rumbled now.

He moved through another corridor – and threw himself into a slide around a doorway as gunshots greeted him. Elijah returned fire, emptying his magazine as he realized he'd entered a larger room – perhaps a common ward or reception area once. Columns broke the space up and he lunged behind one, seeking cover from the trio of men inside. One of them had gone down in the initial exchange, moaning on the ground as blood spread from beneath him.

Elijah dumped the empty box mag and slammed in the drum magazine he'd had tied to his thigh. It added even more bulk to the shotgun which made it even less suitable for sneaking around with, but, well, he wasn't exactly sneaking now, was he? The painted brick and steel column he sheltered behind chipped and snapped under the barrage of gunfire from the other two. His earpieces muted the roars of the shots and let him hear the clicks when the guns went empty. The assailants simultaneously started to reload – amateur mistake.

Leaning out, he snapped off two shots, dumping a load of buckshot into each target. Elijah swung out and approached the still-living one. "Where is she?" he said, kicking the man's machine pistol away. He got only a brief shake of the head in response and ran on. In retrospect, he should have interrogated the first man wandering off alone. Instead, his response had been something instinctive, primal. _Sloppy._

Since he'd gone loud, Elijah figured this was as good a time as any to call up his distraction. Digging into a pocket on his vest rig, he pulled out a remote detonator and hit the switch. Sequential thuds racked the building as the demolition charges he'd attached to the vehicles outside detonated one after another.

* * *

'Jonesy' Tony stepped over her. "Nothing personal, babe, but you really should have taken me up on those drinks." He reached down-

And squealed as Susan's foot slammed up between his legs. She swept her leg through his, pitching Tony from his feet. He hit the ground hard, still mewling from the genital trauma. Lashing out again, Susan drove her heel into his throat, snapping his head back. Scooting forward she wrapped a leg around his neck. She folded her leg up, seizing her ankle with her cuffed hands. The act squeezed his neck in the crook of her knee and she clenched down with all her might, gritting her teeth as she kicked out with her other foot to block his flailing blows. His fists felt like rubber mallets against her thighs and side but she held on, breathing hard through her nose as the blows grew weaker and slower. She kept squeezing for another minute after he went still, the gunfire outside still going. A series of louder explosions echoed through from somewhere outside. Elijah's doing, hopefully. Rizzi rolled away, relaxed her shoulders, curled her legs, and slipped her cuffed hands underneath her bottom, bringing them down and around to her front. Susan tilted her head down and spat out the pin she'd tore from Fabbro's lapel during her fraudulent headbutt.

"How do you like my legs wrapped around you now?" She bent the pin tip out and inserted it into the keyhole of the cuffs.

Time to go to work.

* * *

Elijah fought through another corridor and into another larger chamber. A part of his mind registered that it had once been a lobby of some kind – open and with multiple exits headed deeper into the building. A group of Fabbro's men came from one of the corridors, pouring hasty fire and forcing him up a different hall. Weaving in and out of various interconnected rooms and doorways, he took down another three men, but knew the tide of the fight had turned. He'd lost the element of surprise, and now their numbers would increasingly come into play.

Time passed in a blur of gunfire, sprinting, rolling, maneuvering for a better position with each encounter. He couldn't hope to take on all of them at once. The only chance was to split them up, string them along.

Vaulting over slabs on his way through the morgue, Elijah realized he didn't expect to come out of this alive. He never had; the chances of getting through to Susan were so small as to be laughable. He dumped another empty mag, backed through a series of abandoned offices while slamming doors shut to slow pursuit and shredded paper from decades-abandoned files flew through the air. Running low on buckshot, he dropped the shotgun to dangle at his side from its sling, wincing as the hot barrel brushed his leg. Elijah unslung his compact little bullpup and put a trio of rounds through the door to discourage the guy kicking at it, then kept retreating.

Elijah had gotten partway through the reception lobby for some surgical section when he got hit twice.

The rounds hit like mallet blows against his left side, sending him stumbling down. He rolled to the side, frantically going for the counter in the center of the room as he returned fire one-handed. He choked off a groan as another round smacked off his back. Elijah collapsed behind the counter, back to his pursuers.

"Just make it easy for everybody!" somebody from outside called. "You come on out, we'll make it fast!"

Breathing hard, he stuck the gun over the counter and unleashed a blind shot. The pain of moving wrung another gasp from his throat – and then he noticed movement coming from the opposite hallway. They'd flanked him. _Great._

"Last chance, asshole!"

He snapped a shot off towards the close hallway, but didn't have a good angle.

"Nade that fucker!"

 _Oh, not good._ Elijah had just enough clearance to see the man who'd flanked him pull out a stubby black cylinder. See, but not stop. He struggled to raise his rifle, knowing that it would be too late, and-

A blur struck the man from behind, driving him down out of sight. Two gunshots sounded. A second later the grenade flickered overhead – past him and towards the doorway full of hostiles. Panicked cries cut off as the concussion grenade detonated with a floor-rattling thud.

"Elijah?" came Susan's voice.

His heart sped up. He shifted against the counter and found his voice. "Susan?"

She slid over the top of the reception counter to join him. A slice ran through one shoulder of her shirt. One corner of her mouth and chin was bruised, she had a cut above one eyebrow, and she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in that moment. "What the hell are you doing here?" she said over the shouts coming from the doorway.

"The idea was to rescue you," he said with a groan. "Looks like it's the other way."

"I needed the distraction." She glanced over the top of the counter, then looked him over quickly. "You hit?" Her eyes widened when he nodded, and she patted him down swiftly, then sagged with relief. "No bleeders. Your vest caught it."

"Still hurts like hell."

"Yeah." Susan rose to her knees and emptied her pistol at Fabbro's men. She ducked back as return fire came in. "I'm out! Got anything-"

Elijah hit the quick-detach on the Origin-12 sling and shoved the shotgun towards her, then drew out a box mag. "Last one of these!"

Susan took the shotgun, slammed the mag home, and racked the bolt handle. She gave him a look all the while, her eyes twinkling with what looked like exasperation, gratefulness, amusement, worry, and determination all at once. And it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, he was quite horrendously screwed up as a surge of affection rose up his torso. Here they were, in the middle of a murder house, hemmed in by enemies, both of them not in the best of shape – and he'd never felt so elated.

* * *

Susan tore her eyes away from Elijah and his sudden lopsided grin, shouldered the monstrosity of a shotgun that he'd brought along, and peeked over the counter. She shot the closest exposed target, sent two more shells through the bloody doorway, and shifted position a little to the right, waiting for more return fire. She watched for another moment, then lowered herself and glanced over at Elijah again.

"I think that's chased them off for the moment," she said, then felt her eyes widen as he chuckled weakly. "What is it?"

"This," Elijah said, "is the second time I've been shot on your account."

"I know. I'm sorry-"

"Don't be." He shifted, one hand pressed against his chest. "I just hope loving you doesn't feel like this all the time."

Susan felt the breath catch in her throat. "We should talk after this."

"Yeah, that's terrifying."

She smiled briefly, then bent over and kissed his forehead. "No, I don't mean the 'it's not you it's me' type of talk. I mean the 'let's run off together' sort."

"Oh, okay. That's more reassuring." Elijah sat up, twisted his torso with a wince. He reached out, took her hand, and gave it a quick squeeze. "Let's do that. But how about we kill Fabbro first?"

"Damn straight." Shouldering the Origin-12, she checked the doorways again. "But he's already fled."

"He's still here unless he had a chopper nearby. I blew the cars." Elijah pushed himself to his knees and slipped a fresh magazine into his carbine. "We can finish this here."

"Yeah." They moved out from the cover, advancing towards the doorway. "I must admit," Susan said, "this is not how I expected this employment contract to end."

Elijah laughed briefly. "Ow. Alright, I think they were parked… that way." He pointed with his weapon. "I'll take point and cover left."

"You're hurt," she said.

"I'm also armored." Elijah glanced over at her. "Please. I didn't come all this way to see you get shot."

Susan stared into his eyes for a moment, trying to condense her experience of the past weeks and months into a single look. They really needed to have that talk after this. She nodded once. "Okay."

They swept each side of the doorway and the hall beyond. Several torn bodies greeted them. She took a fallen pistol from one, jammed it into her holster. They traversed the length of that hall, moving fast but clearing windows and doorways on either side. Elijah peeked around the corner to the next one – and the gunfire started back up.

Elijah ducked back as plaster and stone chipped and flew. He maneuvered his gun around the corner and returned fire as Susan slid down into position beside him. She leaned out, got a quick look at what awaited them. Three men: two leaning out from doorways lining the hall, the third crouched behind an overturned gurney halfway down. She tucked back, barely avoiding the round that ricocheted off the floor beside her cheekbone.

She glanced at Elijah, got a nod in reply. He leaned out and opened fire again at the same time she did so. His rifle rounds zipped through the leftmost man. She put her first shell into the crouching man in the hall, who'd been in the midst of reloading. The next shell went into the rightmost man – or at least that was the intention. The pellets just winged him, making a mess of his arm. The shotgun's bolt locked open on an empty magazine. Elijah put a final round through the man's head. She dropped the depleted weapon, letting it dangle from its sling, and tugged out her appropriated pistol.

The next minutes passed in a blur of fire and movement. She and Elijah fought their way out through the hospital, moving and covering one another in a dance of synchronicity – and violence. Susan emptied the pistol, tossed it, and scooped another one up without breaking stride. Moment by moment she grew more aware of her exhilaration: at being alive, but even more at their mutual cooperation. When she moved, he covered, and vice versa. They covered one another's blind spots, suppressed hostiles, split up to clear rooms, and collapsed back together.

They entered a larger room and she grew aware of the warmth; something was burning just outside. Susan lunged around a pillar, tackling the man moving around behind it. They went down in a roll as Elijah engaged the other hostiles backing towards the wrecked doorway leading outside. Flickering orange light testified to the presence of flames beyond. Susan rolled atop, slamming the man's gun hand to the floor beneath one knee. Holding her pistol with both hands, she angled it down and put a round through his head.

Still atop the dead man, she shifted her aim up and fired three more shots, dropping the closest one of Fabbro's enforcers. The fun locked empty and she tossed it aside as she rolled forward and grabbed the gun from the hand of the dead man beneath her.

Elijah was likewise down to his pistol and sword; he worked his blade with one hand, deflecting the gun arm of the last enforcer as he closed and put two shots into his chest. Susan climbed to her feet and made her way to his side. They approached the rusted doorway leading out together, but held back from the edge.

"You're hurt," he said, nodding at her head.

Susan reached up and rubbed her forehead. Her finger came away bloody and she realized she'd suffered a cut at some point in the last fights. She prodded a little more and shook her head. "It's not bad." She glanced out the door. A row of burning, wrecked SUVs lay about ten meters from the door, debris strewn about the ground. Off to the side sat the remains of a van – presumably the one that had grabbed her outside the Continental. Pools of flaming gasoline spread flickering light against the darkening sky. "Fabbro had two men with him when he left. I didn't recognize them among the guys we went through."

"Probably out there," Elijah said quietly. He bent down and hauled his victim up, holding the body upright before shoving it out the doorway. A barrage of gunfire struck the body even as it slumped over. "I make left, behind the van."

"And right," said Susan. "Second wreck from the end. Your work, huh?"

"You know me and my distractions."

She smiled for a moment. "Whatever happens, I want you to know-"

"No, we're having that conversation later. First we get clear of here." He motioned towards the outside with his head. "How do you want to play this?"

"Suppress left, take right." Susan checked her pistol. "Ready?"

He nodded.

Susan lifted the pistol and opened fire, sending rounds towards the left shooter as Elijah burst out from the doorway at a sprint. He crossed the distance to the closest car wreck and slid down to a halt behind the engine block as bullets rang off around him. Smoke from the various flames clouded the air. She got the fiber optic sights lined up as the man by the van leaned out to track Elijah. She jerked the trigger just a hair too hard on the first shot, putting the round into the target's shoulder instead of his chest. He flinched around, arm twisting. She rode the recoil and put the next shot through his head. The target dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

Elijah had started putting slow, methodic fire towards the other shooter. Susan burst out from the doorway, circling around at a dead run towards the target's position. He was shooting back at Elijah, the both of them huddled down behind wreckage and firing blind over the top at each other. She met Elijah's eye as she ran up and over a wrecked hood. He stopped shooting just as she leapt towards the man.

She recognized Albert, his eyes wide and chest heaving hard. He swung his carbine-converted pistol towards her. Susan deflected it with the forearm of her free hand, extending the pistol with her other hand. Albert blocked it with an upwards swing of his elbow. She swung her knee up towards his groin and met the meet of his thigh as he twisted his hips. Too close to effectively use the stocked pistol, Albert shoulder-checked her, slamming his bulk into her. Susan threw herself into a backwards roll. They fired at the same time; she felt a hot sting across the top of her shoulder. Albert screamed in pain. She'd fired partway through her roll and shot his foot. As he doubled over, grabbing at the wounded appendage, she came to her feet and shot him straight through the top of his head.

Breathing hard, she clutched a hand to her shoulder. The bullet had nicked her flesh, leaving a little bloody furrow – painful, but shallow. Nothing life-threatening. Between the cold and the wounds she'd picked up though, her body practically screamed with pain and exhaustion. Half-turning to check behind her, Susan caught a glimpse of movement from behind another wrecked car, just as-

Elijah threw himself between her and whatever it was. A shot rang out and he collapsed, revealing Fabbro coming around the final wreck. He held a pistol in one hand, extended towards her. Susan spun and tried to lift her own weapon, but it felt like she was dragging her limbs through molasses. Fabbro leveled the gun at her-

And screamed in sudden pain as Elijah's blade came up and slashed his arm. Fabbro's shot went wide as he dropped the gun and clutched his torn wrist. Susan raised her pistol with what felt like glacial slowness. She squeezed the trigger once, twice. The gun locked empty as two ragged red splotches appeared on Fabbro's chest. He staggered back and slumped against the wrecked car. Susan tossed her empty pistol aside.

Groaning, Elijah pushed himself up to one elbow and aimed his pistol at Fabbro. Then he lowered it, reversed his grip, and turned the other way. He held the pistol out towards Susan. Moving forwards in a half-stumble, she reached his side and took the offered pistol. The Jericho grip filled her hand with its residual warmth. Susan reached down with her free hand and took Elijah's hand, interlacing their fingers together. She aimed his pistol at Fabbro, settling the sights over the bridge of his nose, feeling her arm tremble ever so slightly with exhaustion.

"You stupid bitch," Fabbro said, his voice coming in wet wheezes. "Look around. You wouldn't be like this if it weren't for him."

"No, I wouldn't," said Susan.

She pressed the trigger.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

Her legs on the verge of giving out, Susan slumped down beside Elijah. He propped himself up on his elbows, breathing hard. Groaning, he prodded at his chest. "Thrice lucky," he muttered. "Somebody up there likes me."

Susan laughed, half in relief and half in mania. She realized she was still holding onto his hand and gave it a squeeze. "I'm sorry," she said. "Maybe this _is_ what trying to love me is like."

"I'll take it," Elijah said.

Susan leaned against him, slipped an arm around his waist, and felt him wrap an arm around her shoulders. She leaned her head against his, reveling in the warmth of the contact against the cold. Closing her eyes for a moment, she let the thrill of surviving fill her. "You came for me," she whispered over the crackling of the flames.

"Did you think I wouldn't?"

"I didn't think you _could_ ," Susan said. "How the hell did you even find this place? How'd you know where I was?"

Elijah explained the Continental's involvement.

"And you just rushed off after me?"

"After buying some explosives." He chuckled, and then groaned painfully. "Ow. What do you say we get out of here?"

"Tell me you have a car nearby."

"I rode a bus here, actually." Elijah grinned at the look she gave him, and Susan felt herself return it. _I'm definitely screwed up something serious,_ she thought. Here they were, surrounded by carnage. But she was _happy,_ damn it. At that moment it all just felt so… right.

Laboriously they climbed to their feet. She wrapped an arm around his waist as they started away from the scene, moving slowly and tiredly. Susan felt his weight against her side and knew that she was leaning on Elijah just as much as he was her.

It was over. They just had to make it to Elijah's car and-

Harsh white light flooded over them. It came from a trio of vehicles barreling down the street towards them.

"That can't be good," Elijah muttered as the cars, a trio of gray SUVs, pulled to a halt in a rough semi-circle around the staggering assassins.

Susan wished she had her weapons, but realized that would change nothing as car doors opened and grim-faced Chinese men poured out and leveled SMGs at them. Silver Mountain. She felt Elijah tighten his grip around her waist and shift the sword he held in his other hand.

The rear door of the center car opened and Xiao Ma emerged, facing off to the side. The porcelain beauty had her phone to her ear. "…yes, that is correct. I will require a substantial dinner reservation." She paused. "That is yet to be determined." She paused again, and then turned to face Susan and Elijah, meeting their gazes. "I shall call again in a little while to confirm the final count."

Of course the universe would mock them like this. Susan blew out a tired breath as Xiao Ma put the phone away and brushed a hand down the side of her winter coat like she was wiping away a speck of dust. The Silver Mountain lady clicked her tongue and said something in Chinese. Susan felt Elijah tense against her.

"What do we have here?" Xiao Ma said. "How odd, Wu- _cike_ , that you would profess a desire to wash your hands in the golden basin, and yet…" She gestured at the flaming wrecks and building behind them. "If this is your idea of a quiet life, I would say you needn't bother retiring." Then she lifted one eyebrow at Susan. "And to find you in the arms of Miss Rizzi; I should be affronted."

"What are you doing here, Xiao Ma?" said Elijah wearily.

Xiao Ma ran a finger idly across the hood of her car. "Eighth Tiger was dissatisfied with your lack of progress, compared with your previous work. He tasked me with investigating what could be the matter. I cannot take credit for it; others reached out to me with information. Imagine my surprise to discover the oh-so proper and professional Wu- _cike_ rutting like an animal – with his target."

One of the Silver Mountain men to the side said something in Chinese and Xiao Ma laughed. "Indeed. It appears he found a pretty lady for himself after all."

"Looks like the Eye sold us both out," Susan muttered to Elijah.

"Oh yes," Xiao Ma said, stepping closer. "They are delightfully mercenary in their ways. Unlike, say, the Continental. One must admire the management's commitments to its principles, but it does make business difficult at times." She looked over at Susan. "Tell me: did you enjoy yourself? It looked like you were having fun."

Elijah's blade twitched and the Silver Mountain personnel raised their weapons.

"Funny thing," said Susan. "You're the second person I've had this conversation with today. The first is dead."

Xiao Ma laughed. "I think, in another world, we might have been friends, Miss Rizzi. And you, Wu- _cike._ I was having you followed. Then suddenly off you go, charging to the outskirts of the city. The curiosity overcame me."

"Your little war is over," Elijah said. "It ended here tonight. And we're out."

"Are you, now?"

"Fabbro's dead," said Susan.

The smirk on Xiao Ma's face froze. She looked over to her left and gave some orders in Chinese. Two men left the cordon of vehicles and hurried towards the former hospital. "You hope to buy off your fates in this way?"

"Hasn't there been enough bloodshed?" Elijah asked, but to Susan he sounded resigned and weary – not hard to see why given their situation.

"There is the matter of your contracts," Xiao Ma said with all the unconcern of ordering a coffee. She appeared to be content to wait, wrapping her coat tighter against herself as she stared at Susan remorselessly. The assassin shivered; the cold seeped in through her torn clothes and even Elijah's presence could only do so much. They waited in silence until the men returned – one moved across to Xiao Ma and spoke quietly in her ear.

"How very interesting," Xiao Ma said. "You were truthful in this regard. Tell me: whose hand ended Fabbro's life?"

"Does it matter?" Susan said.

"Indulge me. It can't hurt your chances, after all."

"Susan killed Fabbro," said Elijah. "She won your war for you."

"What is this? Have you resorted to begging now?"

"If you want to censure me for breach of contract, fine. Just let her go. She's-"

"That's not happening!" Susan said. "I haven't come all this way just to lose you now."

"You are hardly in a position to prevent it," said Xiao Ma, pacing back and forth before holding in front of them. "I haven't anything against you personally, Miss Rizzi, though you did try to kill me once. That was merely business. So is this."

"It's going to get personal if you try anything," Susan replied.

Xiao Ma glanced around at her men pointedly. "'Try'?"

Susan stared silently at her.

"You are both wounded and spent. Why persist with this? There can be only one outcome."

"If you want him, you'll have to go through me."

Xiao Ma tilted her head to the side. "Why? What is this outcast to you?"

"You're really going to make me say it, aren't you?" Susan felt the corner of her lip tug upwards as she tightened her arm around Elijah's side.

"Words have power, Miss Rizzi."

And they were going to die in the next few minutes. It wasn't like she would be getting another chance. She felt the old aversions, the old barriers, start to rise up – and then crumble down. A warmth that had nothing to do with the physical temperature flickered in her heart. For once, she wanted – she _needed_ – to be open. Honest. Vulnerable.

Susan pressed her head against Elijah's. "I love you," she whispered.

"I love you," he murmured back.

Xiao Ma clapped her hands twice. "How very touching. But as I've said, there remains the matter of your contracts."

Susan tensed, digging deep for her reserves. Xiao Ma was right: any fight here would have only one outcome. But she'd make them work for it – and Xiao Ma stood closest. Her mistake.

The Silver Mountain lady raised a hand – and then stepped aside. "I understand the benefit you've rendered the Silver Mountain. It would be… unbecoming to act against that here."

"You're- What?" Elijah shifted against her, his weight against Susan a constant pressure.

"As you said, you're out." Xiao Ma gestured past herself towards the lights of the city. "You're free to leave here."

"Why?" Susan asked, her innards churning. "It's never that easy. What's your game?"

"Shall we call it a desire to see what happens next? The last time a renowned _cike_ washed his hands in the golden basin, the result was… all this. Mister Wick has left no small measure of disturbance in his wake, no? Admittedly, it took several years for him to ignite things again, but when he did…" She took a deep, happy breath. "Oh, it was glorious."

"You just want to watch the chaos?"

Xiao Ma inclined her head once. "Chaos breeds opportunity. I am quite content to use you in such a manner. Of course, Eighth Tiger is unlikely to see it that way. He will desire action against the both of you."

"Of course he will," said Elijah.

"We will clean this mess up," Xiao Ma said, nodding at the site behind them. The Silver Mountain men broke around them and moved past, none of them exactly turning their backs on the pair but also giving them space. "And then I shall return to Eighth Tiger and make my report. At that time, there will be contracts placed upon both of you, for the duration of one week upon their opening. After that, the Silver Mountain Society will have considered both of you as having washed your hands in the golden basin – and everything that entails. Assuming, of course, that you survive."

"Very generous of you," Susan said.

"Yes, I thought so myself." Xiao Ma gestured past towards again with one hand. "I suggest you not linger in the city. You're about to become uncomfortably desirable for a while." When the pair didn't move she quirked one corner of her lips downward. "My offer will not stand forever."

Elijah's hand tightened around Susan's side. "We'd better move," he muttered.

They started off, slow and shuffling. As they walked past the cars Susan turned her head to regard the other woman. "Thank you," she said quietly.

Xiao Ma gave her an odd little smile. "Be seeing you both."

* * *

Heading for his car, Elijah sheathed his sword as they moved away and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. Susan sank into the warmth, her heart racing. She felt a sudden desire to laugh deliriously. They were out. They were together.

"We have contracts on us now," Elijah said, as if he'd read her mind.

"I'm sorry about-"

"Don't be," he said. "I always figured it was inevitable, given our life choices."

"Yeah, I've made some pretty lousy ones." Susan reached up and took his hand, gave it a squeeze. "I don't think being with you is one of them. Anyone wants to fulfill the contracts, bring them on. We'll face them together."

"Together," Elijah said. "Not something I'm used to."

"Think you could get used to it?"

"With you?" He let out a shaky breath. "Yes, I think I could."

"If only because you need somebody to watch your back when the hunters looking to fulfill the contract come along?"

"We work well together."

"Yes, we do."

"Except for that time you shot me."

"Or that time you threw me out a window." Susan chuckled and kissed his cheek. "It worked out."

"It did." Elijah sighed. "Whatever happens, I love you."

"I love you," she said, then, "I'm really not used to saying that."

"Me neither," he admitted. "But I look forward to growing used to it."

"Honestly, that idea scares me more than surviving a contract."

"Yeah, me too." Elijah sighed, shifted. He brushed a thumb over Susan's shoulder. "You getting second thoughts about all this?"

"Hell no. I just don't know how to do this."

"We'll figure it out. Somehow."

Out in the distance, the lights of the city glittered like a multi-faceted beacon. The sky was a hazy darkness, all gathering clouds heavy and swollen with the promise of snow. Another cold front was coming in, heralding a winter storm that threatened to cover the city. Susan took a deep breath, savoring the sting of the chill in her lungs. "Yes. Yes we will."

"Come on," Elijah said. "Let's go home." He paused, chuckled. "Not that I have one."

"Me neither," said Susan. "But that's alright. We'll make one; I have you."

Elijah took her hand, intertwining their fingers together. "Yes. You do."

"I told you once that loneliness is a choice," Susan said. The cold, the pain, the exhaustion - none of that could dampen the prospect of something new beginning and the fierce joy welling up within her. "I'm no longer alone."

 **The End**


End file.
